


Life In The Doll House

by AthenaNuu



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Animal Death, Babybones (Undertale), Babytale, Bisexuality, Child Papyrus, Child Sans, Dadster, Domestic Fluff, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Flirting, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Kidnapping, Love/Hate, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence, Mutual Pining, Parent W. D. Gaster, Slow Burn, Stalking, Wet Dream, nanny reader
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-16
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2018-09-25 01:42:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 67,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9796823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AthenaNuu/pseuds/AthenaNuu
Summary: You're making an okay living, running a popular blog and video channel titled "Life In The Doll House", which is dedicated to reviewing toys, dolls and games. It's a satisfying and enjoyable job, however, it doesn't quite pay the bills.After a chance encounter with the famed Royal Scientist, Dr. W. D. Gaster, you hastily send in an application for his job advertisement: a live-in nanny for his two young children, Sans and Papyrus.As it turns out, the mysterious Dr. Gaster isn't quite as you'd expected, and he appears to be more of a handful than his children!However, you had never backed down from a challenge before, so why would you start now?~A canon-divergent Undertale story, in which the Great War was averted, and Monsters were never trapped underneath Mount Ebott. Humans and Monsters co-exist peacefully, and Ebott City is thriving!





	1. Kitten Whiskers

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Audition](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9615263) by [maximum_overboner](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maximum_overboner/pseuds/maximum_overboner). 



 

With the soft twinkle of an overhead door chime, a small cluster of Monsters entered the tiny store. You were standing right in the centre of the room, too busy studying the nutritional information upon a box of kitten biscuits to notice; too distracted to take note of the excited chattering of children.

“This shall only take a moment. Go and play.” a deep voice murmured, “Neither irritate nor pick up the animals unless someone is there to supervise. I am sure you both recall what happened _last_ time.” They warned.

Two small voices sheepishly agreed with a synchronised “Yes Papa”, before they darted away, tiny feet slapping hard against the tiled floor.

“C’mon! The bunnies are over here!” One cried, rocketing past you in a blur of white and blue.

You hummed, deep in thought, shoving two boxes of food into the basket that hung from the crook of your arm. Your bank account would be left weeping, but it would be worth it to surprise your close friend on his birthday, especially with a bountiful basket of supplies for his new kitten.

With a little difficulty, you ticked the items from your hastily written checklist and looked at the final item: a collar. You made your way through a wide archway into the back room of the pet store, and grinned. The musky, earthy scent of litter and hay combined with the cacophony of squeaking animals, and you giddily approached the rows of hutches and cages.

 

Open topped pens housed rabbits and guinea pigs, and the walls were lined with metal cages for whistling, jewel coloured birds. You waltzed down the small walkway in the centre of the room, melting at the sight of cuddling hamsters, and the occasional mewling kitten who stretched up the tall walls of their dens. Clinging to the other side of the wall were two young children, balancing on their tiptoes to peer over the gates

“Look! That one is called Mr. Whiskers!” One squealed, pointing to a snoozing grey rodent that lounged on soft bedding in their tall, mesh covered hutch. You smiled down at the Monster children and scooted past them, heading toward a rack of collars and leashes. A sales assistant was perched upon a stool, drowning in an oversized work shirt, busily tapping away at her phone. She glanced over at you, nodded in greeting.

“Welcome to Tim’s Pets. Is there anything I can help you with?” She beamed, brushing fluff from the front of her trousers. With a flourish, she squared her name badge, stamped with Sarah in blocky black letters.

You plucked a small silver collar from a metal hook and dropped it into your overflowing basket, waving your crumpled piece of paper around.

“I've just finished, thanks!”

“Let me know if you need a hand finding anything else.” Sarah offered warmly, before turning back to the phone in her hands and not-so-discretely resumed her game.

You glanced at the watch around your wrist. 11:30am. Now that you were finished shopping, you could grab a coffee and something sweet before heading home.

The Skeleton-Monsters were giggling as the rodent stirred, snuffling it's tiny face further into the wood chips.

“What is it? It looks like a fat squirrel-rat.” The smaller asked, gazing at the creature with wonder in their eyes. The children were wearing matching denim dungarees: the short and stocky kid had stains down the front of their jacket, and the tall, lanky one wore an impeccably pressed shirt underneath.

“It’s a chinchilla.” You piped up, slowly making your way over to the cage. They jolted, spinning on the heals of their light-up sneakers and turned to face you.

“Chinchillas are a bit like rats, but these are much larger and fluffier. Aren't they cute, with their big round tummies!” You leant forward, observing Mr. Whiskers as he slept. Inwardly, you balked at the Chinchilla’s price tag and turned to watch a bundle of cats chowing down.

“Chillinsa? Chinsi- Chachilla?” The tallest attempted. “Nyeheheh, it’s small, round and sleepy, just like you Sans!” He quipped, a mischievous grin forming upon their skeletal face.

“Heh, good one.” The other child, Sans, chuckled.

“Look!” He suddenly gasped, darting beside you to the kitten coop. His tiny, bony hands gripped the rim of the clear plastic wall.

Your heart twisted as you watched them, and you called out to Sarah, asking “Could I pick up a kitten?”

“Oh sure!” She replied without skipping a beat, “They've just eaten, so they'll be much less fussy.” Her laughter was airy and contagious.

The youngsters watched you place your basket upon the floor, mouths wide open in awe as you leaned into the cage to scoop up a wriggly ball of fluff.

“Wow.” They muttered at the same time. _Ah, the perks of being an adult,_ you mused, scratching the tiny kitty under their soft chin. They lay docile and happy, small enough to cup with both your hands. The scraggly ginger thing was completely missing a front leg, and the tip of an ear was crumpled and curled like an autumn leaf. A bell jingled upon his collar, with a metal tag that read “Peanut.” You snuggled him close, avoiding swiping paws as you breathed in the soft fur of his stomach. You glanced down at the children. The tall one looked like they were going to cry. Supporting the downy kitten beneath their stomach and under their back legs, you squat down and held Peanut out.

“Want to pet him?” You tilted your head and gentle hands trembled in anticipation. The boys huddled closer, tiny fingers tentatively reaching out to gently pat the kitten’s back, who immediately began purring at the soft affections. The child in the neat, striped shirt sniffled and tears were welling in the corners of his dark eye sockets.

“He’s so tiny, and soft, and cu-u-ute! Look at his whi-i-iskers!” He wailed in delight.

“It’s okay, Paps, it’s okay.” Sans soothed, sincerely patting his companion’s back.

After a tender moment saying goodbye, you carefully placed Peanut back into the cage, and he was immediately greeted by the rest of the litter. The weepy child clutched at Sans’ hand, and let out a sob as the cats licked and groomed one-another.

“Are you okay?” You frowned down at him, worry niggling at your stomach as you gripped the handles of your basket.

Sans nodded solemnly, offering a wrinkled tissue from the from pocket of his dungarees.

“He’ll be okay. S’just a bit… emotional around cute things.”

“Want me to fetch your parents?” You smiled gently as tears were softly dabbed away. _Holy shit,_ your maternal instincts gripped your nerves in a choke hold. The tall one wordlessly nodded and tugged at Sans’s sleeve. You walked by their side, strolling along with slow steps to let their small legs keep pace.

  


You were glancing down the short aisles but couldn't see anyone else in the store. Just as you were about to call out to Sarah for help, you spotted a tall, lithe Monster standing at the counter. Tim held a white-knuckle grip upon his pen, the other hand clutching at the wooden desk. He was staring up at the Monster with wide, panicked eyes. You quirked a brow, and stepped in line.

Sans prodded the tall Monster, who turned to face you. His movements were smooth, unnaturally so, and the fact made you feel uneasy. Though slender, he loomed at least two foot taller than your admittedly average height. A hint of a sneer curled his grey lips, and the scars running down his face wrinkled as he scowled. 

“What happened?” He asked in a clipped, gravelly voice that was tinted with accusation when he spotted the sniffling youngster. Protective, he pulled the children closer, and Sans began to stutter out, “But, Papa…!”

The Monster’s perfectly tailored suit and polished dress shoes looked out of place with the haphazard pet store, but you pressed on, offering a weak smile.

“Someone got a little excited around the kittens. I think it was a bit more for them to handle.” You shuffled nervously under his judgemental leering.

The Monster’s large, violet eyes squinted, and he looked you up and down like a predator surveying a meal. He fixed you with a steady gaze and a moment of wholly eerie silence overtook the store. You were thoroughly scrutinised, feeling as small as the exasperated children by his side. Even the pets were quiet, the prey animals sensing the peak in hostility, instinct driving them to a weary stillness.

The atmosphere was smothering.

Sans chirped up, “Papa! It was the ginger one again.” Clearly this was not an isolated incident.

“Ah,” He sounded rather surprised, broad shoulders dipping with an ever-so slight bow of the head. His eyes never left yours, as if he was baiting you into doing something stupid.

“Thank you for bringing this to my attention.” He hummed, and you held yourself back from sagging in relief. _Parents can be so overprotective._ If you weren't zeroed in on the Monster's eyes, you would have spotted the darkness growing, writhing from the far off corners to swallow up the room.

“It’s okay; I certainly know that it's difficult to resist a kitten’s charm!” You chuckled shyly. All at once, you were able to breathe properly again, and the room lightened considerably. Tim, seemingly brought out of his daze, laughed with you though it was nervous: too high, too loud and shaky. The father span, catching Tim with another sharp glare.

The clerk anxiously cleared his throat.

“Uh, S-sir. I can’t put this up.” His voice cracked, and sweat was beading upon his brow.

“And _why_ is that?” The Monster quizzed, staring at Tim with the same piercing glare, unravelling the bumbling man with his stare alone.

Tim gulped, “Sir, t-this is a pet shop. We o-o-only advertise people selling things for a-animals, or los-lost and found pets!” He squeaked, before adding another nervous “Sir.”

The Monster raised a pale arm, pointing over Tim’s shoulder at the cork board hung askew upon the wall. Tim flinched at the sudden motion, but did not move as the long, clawed finger hovered close by.

“Tell me, Timothy, what is that?” The father asked condescendingly, as if addressing a naughty child, or someone that he found particularly incompetent. You gripped the handles of your basket tighter, watching with your heart in your throat.

Skittish, Tim cranked his head, following the pointing hand towards several scraps of paper pinned upon the board. His mouth hung open as he wrenched his eyes back to the Monsters. Another silence.

“It was not a trick question. What _is_ it?” The Monster dropped his hand and drummed his fingers across the countertop.

“That’s, uh- it’s a, erm, an advert for a dog walker?” His voice was quiet. Sweat ran down the nape of his neck.

“So you allow others to advertise services, yet you turn me away?” His deep voice rasped, impatient.

Sans tugged on the hem of his father’s jacket, “Papa! Please, not here.” He whined.

Indignant, the Monster paid him no mind, drilling his fingers harder into the wood.

“Have you suddenly become tongueless, as well as inept? Or do you simply wish for me to tack it up myself?”

Sans slapped a palm upon his own forehead with a soft _clank._ It was his turn to speak, tiptoeing so his smooth head could be seen over the desk.

“Pretty please?” He asked softly, smiling up at the store owner with a toothy grin, “My brother really wanted to put the sign up in here spefi- specifically!”

“Yeah!” Embarrassed, Papyrus blushed a dainty orange, and scuffed his shoes against the floor. “Only nice people like pets, so it's a good idea to put a sign up in here, because we don't want anyone not-nice!”

You internally snorted at the dubious, albeit well meaning and naive, logic. Tim opened and closed his mouth like a gawping fish in the tanks of the back room, dry lips smacking together as he tried to find the right thing to say.

“Words have seemed to fail you entirely, which I do not find surprising in the least. Whilst my sons are capable of rendering you further useless with their pleasantries, I feel it best that we wrap this up.” He pulled up a sleeve of his dark suit, to reveal a shimmering, brass coloured watch wrapped tightly around his leathery wrist. The watch looked brand new, expensive, and polished to perfection. It gleamed in the artificial yellow glow of the cheap overhead light bulbs.

“I have places to be, and I need to leave before any more bleak word vomit falls from the stuttering hole you call a mouth, thus ruining my day.”

With carefully measure movements, he slunk closer, pushing across a neatly typed document upon clean white paper. Tim nodded dumbly, almost upon the verge of a breakdown. He accepted the paper with shaking hands, turning on autopilot and stuck the sheet on the corkboard with a shiny pin.

“Wonderful. You did very well.” The Monster commented dryly, clasping his arms behind his back. He looked down at the children, who were fidgeting, sharing embarrassed glances with each other. “Boys, say thank you.”

The youngsters squeaked out a courteous, “Thank you very much.”

The mood shifted, as different as day and night, the Monster’s voice now soft and compassionate. “Come along children, it’s time for iced cream.” His gate was a slow, predatory stalk, with an oddly menacing aura that came from centuries of practice.

Tiny, boney hands gripped their father’s much more fleshy ones, and the children skipped along as they walked to the door. Papyrus turned to smile at you, bleating out a happy “Thank you for helping us pet Peanut!” as the small family darkened the doorway.

 

 

The bell chimed, and the store was bathed in a deathly quiet state of shock.

 

“Sarah.” Tim’s voice was hoarse. He cleared his throat, before calling out much stronger for the assistant. This time his voice came out in a loud, pathetic whine. You worried for his sanity as Sarah rounded the corner.

“Can you just check out this customer? I- I think I need to go lay down... a-and maybe call my mother...” The man seemed to have aged several years from the experience, his face pale and haggard.

Sarah nodded, nonplussed, and took over nonetheless. Your transaction began without a word, but as soon as Tim was out of earshot, and the door marked “Employees Only” slammed shut, she collapsed into a fit of giggles.

“Hahaha! Oh my god, I can't believe this happens _every_ single time!” She cackled with mirth, scanning the barcode on a box of cat treats.

“What the hell was that about? I thought Tim was going to, like, pass out or something!” You gasped, rubbing at your forehead. You felt a little scattered, the dregs of nervousness clinging to the pit of your stomach.

“Aww man, that's Mr. Gaster! He’s a real sweetheart: ‘comes in regularly for cat litter, and Tim nearly pisses himself every time.” She chuckled, shaking her head. “I don't think that Tim is Monsterphobic or anything, just totally falls apart whenever anyone criticises or insults. Well, I mean Mr. Gaster is pretty intimidating, but he only gives Tim a hard time because he thinks the reaction is funny. What happened this time?”

“He wanted to advertise something,” You gestured to the corkboard as you fished money from your pocket, “I couldn't quite see what it was though.”

Sarah turned, and you both inspected the piece of paper.

  


**Wanted: Childminder/ Nanny**

 

**Experienced childminder required to supervise two young children, aged 6 and 10.**

**The position promises a 42 hour, full time contract, within the Employer’s home, which is situated in the Newest Home region.**

 

**The possibility of a contract for a live-in position will be offered after a 1 month trial period, on a subjective basis. Continual assessment will take place during this time.**

 

**Duties will include:**

  * ****Meal preparation****


  * **Delivering extra-curricular and educational activities**


  * **Entertainment such as reading, games, play-dates and trips out of the home**


  * **Discipline of substandard behavior**


  * **Bathing, cleaning and hygiene maintenance**


  * **Helping the children dress for bed**


  * **Minor household duties such as tidying after the children**


  * **Fortnightly reports**



 

 

**Applicants must be pleasant and energetic, reliable, thorough, observant, and honest.**

**Basic knowledge of Monster culture is mandatory.**

**The position is only available to those who pass a rigorous interview stage, to weed out inadequate or incompatible candidates.**

 

**Supply a CV and a brief covering letter to Dr. W. D. Gaster.**

 

**Email:**

**Wdgaster@DreemurrUni.gov.ed**

 

**For further inquiries telephone:**

**XXX-XX XXX-XXX**

 

**(Pissants and fools need not apply)**

  


Sarah blew a long, low whistle as she read the ad. “Wow, "Fortnightly report"? “Continual assessment will take place during this time”, what does that even mean?”

“I guess he has high standards?” You shrugged.

“Hey, isn't Newest Home that gated community for super rich folk? Like, celebrities live there!”

You weren't paying much attention, pulling out your phone and snapping a picture for future reference.

“Wait, are you thinkin’ of applying?” She passed across your change with a knowing smirk.

The shopping bags were heavy as you dragged them from the counter, potential covering letters jostling about in your mind.

 

“Maybe.” You smiled wryly, before heading into the fresh air of Ebbot City.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aahh, this is going to be so fun to write! 
> 
> I'll post a warning beforehand, but the rating will change when the (skippable) smut starts much later in the story! NSFW parts will be marked with an * in the chapter title.
> 
> Come and say Hi over on [my Tumblr](http://athenanuu.tumblr.com)


	2. The Interview: Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You are invited to an interview.  
> Despite your thorough preparation and copious amounts of experience, you cannot anticipate the events that lay ahead.

There was nothing you hated more than what came in the following days: waiting.

Just waiting.

Absentmindedly editing another blog post, staring at the clock, dubiously following breathing techniques so your gnawing anxiety didn't get the best of you. Your hands were clammy for days, heart pittering with uneasy palpitations. You had always been impatient; hating the _not knowing_ that came inexplicably linked with waiting. It made you feel sick, getting worked up into a calmless frenzy of cleaning and fidgeting. At least your humble apartment was spotless, you mused. Hell, even the mountain of laundry that had taken over your dining table had been washed, ironed and stored into your freshly rearranged wardrobe.

 

Despite refreshing your email inbox every few hours, it was your telephone that chimed, informing of your successful shortlisting to the interview stage. The invitation was curt, stuffily formal, and ridiculously short noticed.

After checking, rechecking, and reading again just to be doubly sure, you were expected to arrive for your interview on that very same day, at 11am sharp. Your clock read 9:14am.

You saved the current draft of your work, setting your laptop on the coffee table and scooping up your half-cold coffee. Drinking and pacing as you typed on your phone, you fired off a quick message of acceptance, hoping to make a good impression with a prompt reply. An automated response came through immediately, detailing the address and confirming the set time. Anxiety pittered in your stomach, trickling like acid through your veins.

You had just enough time to throw a bagel down your throat, print off several documents, give yourself a quick pep-talk in the steamy bathroom mirror, and dress, all before hurrying out the door.

 

 _Who schedules an interview with only a couple of hours warning?_ You sighed, irritated, clicking your nails against the steering wheel. Morning rush traffic had petered out as you hit the outskirts of the city, giving you a little time to slap on some makeup, a light coat of mascara and your favourite lipstick. You puckered your russet lips, studying your reflection in a compact mirror. _Cute._

_Not so cute that you couldn't be taken seriously, but not bold and stark that you looked cold and uncaring... The pigtails were a youthful touch, but plain enough without making you appear naive._

_A well-balanced cute._ You reassured again.

 

Internally, you were panicking, running through your scripted answers and talking points for the more commonly asked questions, but on the outside you were exuding a composed confidence. You had no reason to panic as you knew what lay in store, having repeated it so many times that you had become somewhat of an expert.

At a certain point in your life you had become intimately familiar with the process of job applications and interviews. With the steady stream of businesses and entrepreneurs settling in the city, jobs and vacancies were bountiful, but nothing had ever taken your fancy as a lifelong career.

Over the years, you had racked up an impressive amount of work history, from humble retail, to Human Resources, floristry, to freelance writing. Some jumped up middle-manager had once criticised that during an interview: calling you flighty, belittling your surmountable resume, stating the obvious that you could never hold down a job for more than a year before darting off to the next one. He acted as if you were fired for incompetence, despite your glowing references, instead of resigning to pursue another path.

It was a little thrilling, petty smugness worming inside of you, when you were offered a job as his superior. It was short lived, the novelty wearing off once you realised Market Research just wasn't for you.

You had settled for a while, enjoying the freedom that came with self-employment. That, and the joy of playing with toys for a living made a boring office job pale in comparison.  


The navigation system shouted, demanding you take an immediate left down a winding, gravelly road. The entire car jostled as you drove slower, taking in the gated community drawing above the horizon. Easing into a spot in the visitor’s private car park, you shut off the engine and paused for a moment.

A pile of unopened bills glared at you from the passenger seat; stark white envelopes mocking, sharp corners and sharper demands hidden within. Throughout the short car ride, you kept them besides you as a reminder; motivation.

A heavy sigh surged through your frown. Armed with your thick document folder, you steeled your nerves, warning the humming in your heart to _shut the fuck up._

A mantra chanted through the cacophony of your mind as you strode across the cobblestones: _You are capable, you are reliable, you are relaxed and confident. You are impressive, and charming, and you're going to beat the snot out of the competition_!

 

As you neared the tall, skinny gate house, you were a little shocked at yourself. Did you want this job _just_ for the money? Sure, self-employment trickled in a steady stream of cash, but realistically you knew it wasn't enough. Somewhere, deep within the corners of your soul, you just wanted to prove yourself wrong. Perhaps there was a touch of contrarianism at work too: you wanted the job because you told yourself you couldn't.

You _were_ capable of garnering many talents and skills beneath your belt, despite being trodden down beneath the thumb of nepotistic, ego-inflated bosses. You were going force yourself to reach your truest potential, to have a bountiful knowledge at your fingertips earned from years of hard work. You wanted so desperately to not let that quiet, unwavering courage get the better of you, but something about squaring up to the sneering attitude of Dr. Gaster felt satisfying.

Or.

Maybe you just wanted to work for the amazing salary offered on the advertisement? Working with cute children appeared to be a bonus on top of the entire situation. _Best not to overthink things,_ you smiled.

You rapped your knuckles against the window of the kiosk, and a snoozing dog-monster jolted to life.

“BORK! BORK BERK BORK?” They lolled their tongue out at you, saliva dripping onto the muted silver of their armour. Thick tufts of white fur stood up at odd angles, jutting through the gaps in their plated pauldrons like snow upon a slate field.

“Yes, that's right. I've got an appointment with him at 11.” You slipped a printed copy of your entrance permission through a tiny gap beneath the sheet glass. The Dog’s massive gauntlets struck upon their desk with a _clang,_ and they carefully read the page.

You peered at your watch. 13 minutes early.

“BORK! BARK BARK BORK BORK. Bork… BARK!” The Monster beamed, beady black eyes watching you shuffle besides the impressively thick, wrought iron gate.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” You chuckled, “Thank you very much.” Your head dropped in a polite nod as they pressed a button, and the massive gate swung inwards.

You felt the familiar crackling tingle of barrier magic as you stepped across the threshold, taking a brisk pace in the directions of the address. According to your sat-nav, it would take approximately 5 minutes to walk there without being able to drive any closer, and you fell into a quicker step.

 

 

The wind had picked up considerably since you had left the house, and brown clouds gathered across the sky, threatening to overpower the bright rays of sunshine peeking through. Loose tendrils of hair shook from your neatly tied pigtails, striking your skin, and a bitter cold nipped at your cheeks. Shuddering, you hugged your blazer closer around your middle, willing your culottes to stop whipping against your legs. You hurried along, not wanting to get caught out by a shower.

“Bastion House. Bastion House. Bastion… House...” You muttered, eyes flitting to the neatly painted signs on the driveways to the sprawling manor houses. You strode further down the closest cul-de-sac, looking into the distance at the larger mansionettes.

 

According to your research, Dr Gaster was an impressively intelligent being, with too many published papers, patented inventions and creations to count. Given his work in so many fields, from theoretical physics, to exemplary research into the origins and theory of magic, the King and Queen of Monsters had taken a shine to the scientist from a young age. Human governments and private research sectors bolstered at the opportunity to have such a bright mind outperform their best, but ultimately he stayed close to the Monster community, raising a family alongside his work. With each passing year, more industries reached out to the doctor, who relented, using the generous budgets and grants to head several technological advances in medicine and energy.

As such, you expected him to be housed within the heart of the community, perhaps in a grand chateau that bordered acres of green land. You imagined Dr. Gaster attending fancy charity balls, hosting black tie events that catered to the most illustrious and prominent members of society. Butlers, maids, private chefs at the family’s beck and call-

Your brows knitted together as you stopped dead in front of a weathered old sign, rotting wood hammered poorly into a withering brown lawn.

 

“Bastion House”

 

You looked up the poorly kempt path that was riddled with weeds, and bright yellow dandelions sprouting up between the cracked concrete slabs.

_What?_

Broken shutters hung from boarded up windows, discarded roof shingles littered the ground, and a weather worn fountain lay on its side, useless and forgotten.

 

Old paint peeled and flaked from the door as you gripped the rusted door handle, pushing hard against the wood. You stepped inside, and a thin man holding a clipboard greeted you. You held back from puzzling at his frumpy appearance, with his worn old shoes and ill fitting, mismatched track suit. _Dr. Gaster’s assistant?_ You pondered, handing over a copy of your application form.

The conversation was tight, formal, and he showed you to a waiting room where several other people were seated in rows upon folding chairs.

“Help yourself to drinks, I guess. We’ll be starting soon.” The man strained a smile, nodding to a hastily put together tea station. The door closed behind you, and you were left amongst the nervously chattering applicants. There were around two dozen Humans and Monsters, all dressed in smart suits and shirts, buzzing with energy and nerves.

You smoothed out your windswept hair as you looked around. The house was large, inside, though it had fallen into severe disrepair over the years. You imagined at one point, the interior would have been grand, with its open floor plan and sprawling rooms, but now it simply looked tired and broken. There was a pervasive smell of rot and damp in the air, and the room was completely empty, bar the chairs and wonky table.

The juxtaposition from your vivid image of Dr. Gaster’s life and the harsh reality made you feel a little sick. It was all very odd. Very odd, indeed.

Your low heels clicked and scraped against the creaking floorboards and people shuffled out of the way to make room. The countertops of the drink station were stained with solid brown rings and discarded tea bags. However, no others in the room were holding cups or drinking from mugs. You eyed the dirty ceramic and the wet spoon left dipped in the sugar bowl, leaving hard clumps of sweet crystalised coffee scattered around. The soles of your shoes ground against sugar granules, and you gasped as a thick brown bug crawled down into the open container of instant coffee.

You balked, setting aside the cold mug in your hands, opting to suffer through your thirst. With distress visible upon your face, you turned and took the closest seat. The plastic was chilly and uncomfortable beneath your bottom, and the house creaked audibly in the wind.

 

A small Bunny Monster next to you was staring at her hands in her lap, and she muttered, “Well, this isn't what I was expecting at all.” You nodded wordlessly in agreement.

The chatter quieted as the door was swung open, and another man was shown into the room. The new applicant was clearly unprepared, especially given the short notice, and his shirt was wrinkled and creased, tie crooked around his neck.

“Help yourself to drinks, I guess. We’ll be starting soon.” the assistant shrugged as if on autopilot, with precisely the same inflections and inclinations in his voice as when he spoke to you. The others noticed it too, avoiding eye contact with the strange man, some turning their body posture in the opposite direction, and your stomach flopped

The atmosphere lightened when the assistant finally left the room. You couldn't quite place it, but something was… _off_ with the man. His movements were far too fluid, yet clearly forced and uncomfortable, words coming out robotic and rehearsed. The assistant let off an entire aura of uncanny, awkward and _wrong._

“I tried to tell him about the bugs, and dirty crockery, but he just told me to help myself to drinks, like if he wasn't even listening!” You heard a croaky voice tremble from the other side of the room.

“It- it- it kinda feels like one of those haunted houses, ya’know? Where everything is relatively normal but it’s just… eerie. S’not right.” The bunny stuttered and you swallowed. Your tongue felt thick and dry, sticking to the roof of your mouth.

The door was opened once more, and the track-suited man began dispersing packets of paper through the applicants. Everyone was quiet as he stood at the head of the room. The decorated, dusty lampshades that hung from the ceiling seemed to block more light than they let out, casting odd shadows across the man’s face.

“Hi, I’m Guy Manson, and I'll be guiding you through the first portion of the assessments, I guess.” Guy rolled his glassy eyes, as if he would rather be doing anything else. You watched on with a blank expression. Whilst you could do without the attitude, you could fully understand being stuck in a job that you disliked.

“So you've all got the papers and a pen, yeah?” He asked, and the braver people mumbled in agreement, “Great, that saves me another job. So, you've got 30 minutes to take these two brief exams to test your maths and english skills. Any questions?”

The room was so silent that you could hear the bug scurrying through the coffee again, burying itself within the freeze-dried beans.

Over the heads of the other applicants, somebody raised a hand. A matronly woman, with a tight bun that perched dainty upon her head, spoke in a clipped and impatient tone.

“I thought we were shortlisted to the interview stage? I certainly wasn't aware that an exam was required.” She pursed her lips.

“Uh, Amelia, was it?” Guy leaned back against the wall, arms crossed against his chest.

“Cecilia.” She sighed, as if it wasn't the first time she had corrected him.

“Well, the advertisements did say a rigorous interview process, and that's what the Doc wants.” Guy shrugged, “First we take the tests, then we can take a li’l house tour, and _then_ y’all get shortlisted further. ‘Suppose only a few of you will actually be interviewed.”

“Right.” Cecilia replied, unconvinced, but clearly trying her hardest not to start an argument. The lines around her eyes creased as she scowled.

“It’s all to make sure we find only the most suitable candidate.” He said monotonously. “And if there aren't any more questions, you can start.”

 

The sounds of shuffling papers and  scribbling filled the small room. You looked up, watching Guy silently survey the applicants.

You clicked your pen and set to work, resting the thick papers upon your plastic folder as a makeshift table, instead of your squishy lap.

 

The mathematics was rudimentary, basic school level, but you were so on edge that you would have appreciated the reassurance of a calculator. The difficulty ramped up, and your head was awash with applied algebra and theorems by the time you reached the last page. You weren't even sure _how_ it was possible without a calculator. You glanced up at a Cat Monster with large yellow eyes, who was smiling happily to themselves as they wrote answer after answer. _Okay, perhaps mathematics wasn't your strong point._

The English language paper was much more up your alley, with comprehensive reading, literature analysis and the occasional word puzzle.

You were already applying many of the principles to your work on a daily basis, so most of the answers came as second nature.

But then the trick questions began.

You didn't notice the subtle change after the second page, until you paused on one of the final questions, open mouthed.

 

 **Q 28.** **A clerk at a butcher shop stands 5’10” tall and wears size 13 shoes. What does he weigh?**

 

You chewed at the skin on the inside of your cheek.

_Wouldn't that belong in the Maths section?_

Suddenly, it clicked. _Oh_ , very funny.

 

You scribbled down “ **Meat** ” in the answer box, a vague hint of a smile spread upon your lips. Maybe that question was a good way to get the brain working outside of the box?

 

  
**Q 29.** **Which word in the English language is always spelled incorrectly?**

 

Cursing your over-reliance on auto-correct, you ran through every word you could think of that was difficult to spell: _Onomatopoeia? Receipt? Necessary? Separate? Antidisestablishmentarianism?_

You looked back to the previous questions, eyes narrowed with suspicion. Again, the answer slotted itself neatly into your mind.

With angry, boly letters you wrote out “ **INCORRECTLY** ” in the answer box.

 

 **Q 30.** **Which of the following statements are correct:**

**A) “The yolk of the egg is white.”**

**or**

**B) “The yolk of the egg are white.”**

 

You almost let out a sigh of happiness as normality seemed to resume, until you read the question over once more. A low, frustrated grumble left your throat, and the Bunny Monster next to you let out a small nervous giggle.

 

You seethed as you wrote: “ **Neither, because the yolks of eggs are yellow, not white. Though if we’re being pedantic, A) would be the closest, grammatically correct answer.** ”

 

It was around this time that a small man with sloping shoulders and a trimmed, greying beard stood from his seat, slamming his papers to the ground. The feat was not one easily accomplished, as normal papers would have scattered and fluttered to the ground like leaves. Only through frustrated and furious determination did the packet hit the floorboards with a resounding _smack!_

“This is utterly ridiculous! Is this man playing us all for fools? What on Earth does the name of a bus driver have to do with babysitting for bloody children?!” His voice raised an octave, shrill and thick as he stomped across the room. The walls were so thin that you heard his cursing as he exited the front door.

The windows rattled as a storm began brewing outside.

Guy had barely budged from his casual lean against the wall. All eyes were upon the assistant as he checked his yellow plastic watch, wondering how he would react to the other man’s outburst.

“5 minutes left.” He sighed, tapping his foot impatiently.

Breathing out, long and deeply through your nose, you calmed your racing heart and looked to the final question.

 

 **31:** **Optional Question for Bonus Credit** **:**

**(Trust me, you're going to need it.)**

**Who would win in a fight between a Ninja, a T-rex and a Space-Pirate?**

Your pen nearly slipped through the thin white paper as pressed hard, channeling your grumpiness into dark, scrawling letters.

You reached the edges of the page, still writing in the margins as Guy called out.

“Oh thank god! Time’s up! Pens down, everyone. Make sure your names are at the top of each test, unless you want someone else to take credit for your work, I guess?” He pushed himself from the wall, dusting away crumbling plaster from his shoulders.

With arms full of everyone’s papers, Guy disappeared for a moment, loud footsteps ringing through the house as he jogged up and down stairs. You heard far off voices, like disembodied spirits chattering in between the walls.

Nobody spoke a word when he returned. Even the small gaggle of teenagers in the corner were still. You assumed that the youngsters would have performed fairly well on the tests, just out of schooling and education with the knowledge fresh in their minds. However, they all huddled together, swapping concerned and comforting smiles.

“C’mon then, let's go for a quick house tour whilst those papers get marked!” The assistant spoke, swinging the door wide open. You were afraid it would be blown from its hinges, walls shaking at the force of the doorknob hitting brick.

 

Everyone shuffled out of the room, seemingly avoiding Guy as they passed beneath an archway into a large kitchen. At least, you assumed it to be a kitchen. The dirty marble countertops were covered in used plates and packets of instant noodles.

The central island held a microwave, several pots and pans, and a large, rusting sink, but there were neither dining chairs nor a fridge within the large room.

Cobwebs heavy with dust clung to the ceilings, but Guy seemed unperturbed, pressing on through living areas and dance halls, each as dilapidated as the last. You weren't looking around much as the slow drawl of his voice was nearly sending you to sleep, as he spoke of piano tutors and the children’s after school entertainment. You felt a little guilty, watching him so intently but not taking in what he was actually talking about. However, you still couldn't place what was odd about the man; moving and talking so awkwardly, as if he wore his own skin like another ill-fitting suit.

The small group filed up the winding staircase, avoiding large piles of newspapers upon each step, and down a narrow corridor. You dared not look at the black mold and mildew of the bathrooms. You still hadn't grown used to the sight of old tables covered in grime and dirt, or dust and debris littering the floors. You briefly wondered if the rain of the coming storm would leak through the ramshackle roof, soaking the rooms into a more dank, dreary decay.

The thought sent a shudder down your back, like cold, sticky fingers trailing against your spine.

As you neared the end of the hallway, small voices could be heard, echoing laughter behind a thick brown door. It was the only pleasant thing about the house, you slumped, following Guy towards the sounds.

“Ah, the children must be in here.” He spoke loud enough for the back of the group to hear. He gripped the door handle and pushed it inwards. The laughter suddenly stopped.

Being closest to the assistant, you were one of the first to see the familiar Skeleton children. They were happily playing and drawing, laying on their fronts upon a thick piece of cardboard, surrounded by brand new looking toys. A small shaft of light shone between the boards nailed to the window frame, but the room was set awash in a neon glow from a single, flickering lightbulb.

The children looked up with wide, bright eyes as the group slowly shuffled into their room. Everyone huddled in the doorway, and Guy nodded in greeting to the Gaster children. The tall one, Papyrus gave a sheepish wave, and the smaller, Sans, grinned. Someone mumbled a quiet, “Aww, how cute,” and others murmured small “Hello”s.

You raised a hand, waving to the boys and their eyes grew wider in recognition. You noticed scuffs of dirt across their cheeks and knuckles, marring the soft white gleam of their bones. There was single bed beneath the window, sheets unmade, threadbare and soiled upon a rusted metal bed frame. You spied a small chest of drawers and an antique vanity table behind the door, but couldn't peer any further as Guy blocked the way.

“You're the Peanut Lady!” Papyrus gasped, raising to his knees, a bright red Transformaton toy clasped within his hand. You recognised the action figure immediately. Everyone turned to you, and Guy watched carefully from the corner of his cool grey eyes.

Sans, on the other hand, shrunk a little, skittish under the attention of so many people. He tapped Papyrus’ knee, and they both slumped back onto the soft cardboard: the only thing keeping them from the grimy, stained carpet. The tall Skeleton child gave a dramatic cough, and Sans quirked his head to Guy.

“It is time for breakfast yet? We didn't get much to eat last night, and we’re hungry.” He asked, fiddling with a crayon. He sounded much quieter than in the pet store, no enthusiasm or excitement in the soft squeak of his voice.

 

 _Breakfast?_ You paused, taking a sneaky glance at the cheap plastic clock upon the wall.

11:48am. _They hadn't eaten anything all morning?_

Your previous frustrations were left behind, dulled in comparison to the broiling anger that set your teeth on edge. You opened your mouth to speak, but Papyrus held his hand daintily against his brow bone, the lights of his eyes unfocused as though he were about to faint. He gave another racking cough, the sound reverberating within his tiny ribcage. Someone murmured something about toxic mold. Sans heard it and grasped his brother’s knee tighter.

 

Something cracked, and brittle red plastic crumbled beneath Papyrus’ grip. The children looked shocked as they watched the perfectly preserved decal of the toy’s face slide across the floor, resting at your feet. The Transformaton toy’s legs fell from its crushed torso, arms flopping uselessly until they too dropped to the cardboard. It's many wheels rolled away, clattering across the room.

“Paps… Your action figure.” Sans whispered in hushed disbelief.

You knelt, picked the the papery sticker, and started making your way towards the whimpering child, but Guy stopped you from entering further.

 

“Come on, it's time to find out who made it to the interviews.” He spoke loudly, a hand grasping your forearm and steering you out of the room.

As the door slammed shut, you heard Papyrus cry,

 

“I drama’d my toy to death!” His sad little voice echoing as the crowd made its way to another waiting area. The room was also empty: lined with chairs and, somehow, the exact same tea station that was set up downstairs. Even from a distance, you could make out the same happy cockroach nesting in the coffee.

Unsurprisingly, the room was just as barren, just as filthy, but held another door, labelled by a polished brass plaque that read “Master Study.”

Other applicants began seating themselves, unsure of how to process the situation, but you stood, confused, brow furrowing into a deep line.

 

“Help yourself to drinks, I guess.” Guy smiled, relinquishing his grip on your arm.

 

_Something is very, very wrong._

 

“We’ll be starting soon.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally going to be one long chapter, but then my writing got away from me (again) and the word count got ridiculous, so I had to split it into two. Whoops!
> 
> Feel free to message me, or send me cool skeleton memes over on [My Tumblr!](http://athenanuu.tumblr.com)


	3. The Interview: Part II

 

More than half of the group were sent away, their names ominously called one by one from a list, leaving ten of you to fill up the thirty odd seats in the room. It looked sparser than ever, with so many empty chairs.

You weren't sure how you felt about being short listed further, but you were determined to get answers. It was odd, you thought whilst checking your emails, but you had neither seen nor heard from Dr. Gaster yet.

Minutes pass as the stragglers of the group sit in silence, mostly crowding the chairs closest to the exit. You wondered if it was some ancient hunter instinct blooming forth, to make sure they had a getaway out of tight or unpleasant situations.

Beore you could ponder further, you heard voices in the study. There was no mistaking who the low, glassy timbre belonged to.

 

You tapped away at your phone, occasionally looking up to see if Guy had returned. You found it strange that the man could enter out of nowhere, silently appearing when no one was paying attention. Almost ghostly in the way he would be absent one second, and the next, you did a double take to see him stood in the doorway.

The dusty mahogany door of the Master Study was swung open without sound, you paused, glancing around to see which applicant would be called.

“Mossy Banks? C’mon, you're up next.” Guy read, marking her name from the list with a flick of his wrist. You watched as the assistant click the pen, habitually brushing the plastic clip down against the chest of his sports jacket to secure it in place, and then he frowned, confused by the lack of breast pocket. Casually, he tucked the pen behind his ear as he searched the applicants, though worry was briefly etched upon his face.

A tall bipedal monster with great swooping horns and bottle green fur stood from her rickety chair, ducking to make sure her antlers did not scrape the doorframe. Guy followed closely behind, armed with a thick folder and his trusty clipboard, and slammed the door shut.

Everyone else seemed to deflate in relief. You were glad of your seat tucked away in the back row, for whenever the assistant reappeared, you inconspicuously slipped the phone into your pocket, face falling to a passive smile as another name was called.

Not even five minutes later the horned Monster scuttled from the Master Study, bolting out of the house. A man, Hector something-or-other, wearing a crumpled, peach coloured shirt was called next. His legs shook as he walked the seemingly endless distance towards the Study. Guy scowled impatiently, bracing the door open with one foot. They disappeared, though you could hear short snippets of the conversation through the thin walls.

You scrolled through several websites on your mobile, long nails clicking against the glass as you compiled links, paragraphs and telephone numbers into a lengthy document. The voices beyond the wall grew terse, and the tension leached out of the flimsy plasterboard. When the shouting began the small group of Human teenagers practically ran for the door, one sobbing about the societal pressures of the workplace as they exited the house.

 

There was a loud, dull sound, like something heavy smacking against wood, and the voices rallied, one calm but loud, the other shrill and enraged. Another thud, and then the conversation died down.

A small cat Monster leapt from their chair, following the teenagers shortly after.

 

Hector left the room, face red and eyes filling with tears as he stomped across the creaking floorboards. Small flakes of wallpaper scatter away from the shaking walls as he slams the front door. The next applicant took even longer, letting out nervous bubbles of laughter as they departed.

The matronly woman, Cecilia, cleared her throat, posture perfect as she smoothed out her smart blue dress. Her name was called. The interview lasted much longer than the others, and she left the room with an ever-so slight grin.. _There is hope afterall,_ you smiled in return as you made eye contact. She nodded, pausing to gather the papers in her hands, and departed.

 

By the time you had grown used to the stench of old wood and dust, there were three of you remaining. Guy appeared and called the names of those that had already fled. He didn't wait, face twisting into an expression of thinly veiled malcontent, though he hardly looked surprised.

Two of you waiting patiently: the small bunny Monster that you had first spoken to shuffled and fidgeted in place. She sat only a few seats away, on a chair that was far too large. She kicked her legs, swinging her feet impatiently. Her tall, soft ears would occasionally jerk up, and she would shrink a little bit.

You peered up from your phone, “Can you hear what they're saying?” You whispered, curiosity piqued as someone beyond the wall let out a snarl of sarcastic laughter.

She nodded, not taking her eyes from the door as she spoke, “Yeah. Guy is pretty quiet, sometimes telling that Doctor to not get carried away. It's almost like he's supervising him? But the doctor, Dr. Gaster, he is- uhm- being rather mean. I can't hear everything, but it’s not very pleasant.”  

You swallowed thickly, wishing you had brought a bottle of water from your car.

You had worked under people like that before. Sometimes you managed to get them to break the facade of ‘overbearing boss’, which typically stemmed from misplaced anger when their own management demanded higher productivity or impossible quotas. But this position hardly held the typical workplace hierarchy, so why was Dr. Gaster acting like impotent middle-management?

“Oh..” The bunny suddenly looked towards you, ears facing in the direction of the study. “What’s your name, dear?” She asks.

You hear the skeleton children’s laughter ring through the hallway as you answered.

Her face softened into a smile.

 

“Gaster wants to see you next. He’s rather insistent.”

 

You were glad for the time to collect yourself, and prepare for what could be a disaster of an interview, but you were not sure how to react. Gaster seemed like a man of extremes, and if he was insisting upon your interview, then you would either be picked apart, or praised.

_Or maybe you were reading too much into it, and Gaster just wanted the current interview over with?_

The door opened, Guy gave a lopsided smile as he called your name. He stepped back into the office, holding the door for you.

Despite your warning beforehand, your heart still hammered and nervousness kicked at your stomach. You pocketed your phone, picked up your documents and walked confidently into the study.

It was odd, your subconscious noticed, but your mind was too busy fretting to let the thought slip through to be digested: you hadn't seen the last applicant leave.

The door closed with a soft click behind you.

 

The Study was much cleaner than the rest of the house, all polished wood floors and brass fixtures, with a floral scented candle flickering atop a tall metal stand. The room was relatively small, every available space was stacked with old books, or dusty ornate vases. It smelt much fresher than the old rot and damp in the walls.

The Study was lit by softly diffused white light, and half-filled bookcases lined the walls. A large, impressive desk took up one end of the room, sitting adjacent to a wide, clean window that was open just a touch. Guy hovered beside the desk, standing with his arms folded across his chest. You took a few steps forward, forcing a smile as you neared the doctor. However, your adrenal glands didn't get the memo, and they kicked into overdrive despite your veil of confidence.

 

Dr. Gaster remained seated in an old leather chair, typing away on an expensive white laptop, not bothering to look up as you introduce yourself. Slightly leaning across the expanse of the wood, you reached out your hand to him. You hovered there for a moment, and he finally tore his gaze away from the screen. His sharp lilac eyes flit from your face, to your hand, as if he were contemplating even continuing the interview. Finally, he gripped your unwavering hand, grasp firm as he shook it and you introduce yourself.

“Good afternoon. I'm sure you already know who I am.” He began cooly, settling back in his chair. Gaster waved a hand towards the seat on the other side of the desk. You nodded and tried not to cringe as the new plastic squeaked beneath your weight. Despite being seated, Gaster still towered above you, though he appeared a touch more intimidating framed by the brooding light of the storm.

You set your folder upon the desk, momentarily marveling at the wood; a rich brick red, stained to bring out the bolts of silver and umber, glazed and polished to perfection. It looked incredibly expensive.

“Bubinga.” Gaster stated, the scar from his eyelid to his browbone creasing as he quirked his head.

“Bless you, or gesundheit. Whatever." Guy offered sincerely.

 

Time skipped a beat, you held back a snort of surprised laughter.

Gaster’s eye twitched. He paused, slowly craning his head to shoot daggers at his assistant, who in turn began fidgeting beneath the gaze.

 

“It is Bubinga. The desk is hand carved Bubinga wood, imported from eastern equatorial Africa. It boasts exceptional strength in order to support the metaphorical-tonne of shit that I have to deal with, no thanks to you!” He seethed through his teeth, “I've burdened myself with far too many cretins today, and my tolerance to further idiocy is wearing thin. It is barely noon and I can already feel my brain leaking from my ears.” Long slender fingers massaged his temples as he groaned.

“How was I supposed to know? You're getting far too worked up over this!” Guy dropped his arms by his sides with a dramatic huff.

It appeared that the pair had forgotten you were even in the room altogether.

“I hired you for your purported intellect, and all you have done today is fetch me lukewarm, watered down swill, and herd a handful of idiots around a house!”

“What the hell, dude? All _you've_ done today is play Minesweeper and mark some tests.”

Gaster scowled at the remark, spinning the chair to fully face his assistant.

“Did you honestly, one-hundred percent seriously, just refer to me, your employer, as “dude”? Because I would very much like to know.” His words were curt, testing Guy’s resolve.

“Like, whatever. I don't have to deal with this.” The assistant turned on his heel, hands clenched to fists as he stood with his back to the doctor.

“Cirrus- good lord, the heat death of the universe cannot come quickly enough to engulf me in a painful end- What the hell are you doing?” Gaster’s voice held the barest hint of concern, which was completely overwhelmed by the venom on his tongue.

“Guy.” His assistant corrected simply, staring ahead at a bookshelf.

 

Another quiet moment. You watched on, hands clasped patiently in your lap for their little spat to conclude.

 

“What?” Dr. Gaster spat, as if the very notion of the man’s name was foreign to him.

“Guy?” The assistant offered meekly, turning to look over his shoulder, “Guy Manson?”

The air felt rather dense, thick with magic and tension.

“Pray tell, Cirrus, what _is_ a Guy Manson?” Dr. Gaster sighed, exasperated, and drooped further into his chair.

“It’s, uh, me. You know, what you asked me to do.” Guy answered cryptically, eyes flitting meet yours as you waited.

The motion went unnoticed and Gaster pressed on, “ _What?”_ and then the penny dropped, understanding shining bright in his purple eyes.

“So, when I asked for you to perform a simple charade, instead of consulting me, you decided upon…” Gaster gestured to Guy’s tracksuit and bleach stained shoes, “ _This? This_ is the best of your ability? A poor man, shambling about life, looking as if he wishes to join a gym but has never seen a single protein ever enter his wasting muscles? _This_ is what you bring me?”

You were lost, but Guy span around. All of a sudden, his demeanour changed, his voice was no longer strained and quivering, nor was he slumped over balefully. He stood up straight, tugging down his ill fitting jacket.

“You said, and I quote, ‘Act like you belong upon the applicant's side, to make them feel welcome. But not too welcome that they expect a wonderful time. Make them feel uneasy. An uneasy welcome.’” Guy mimicked Gaster’s deep timbre, “So I took a look at the shortlist, and this is what I came up with!”

“I did not say ‘petulant teenager begrudgingly doing their job’, nor did I say ‘sociopath who wears the skinned faces and old clothes of his victims!’” Gaster boomed in outrage. “And which corner of your vapid mind did you pull that name from? Guy Manson? _Guy Manson?!_ You should have introduced yourself as ‘Person Not-A-Fake-Name McManlyHuman, the Third’, and dispensed with your poor attempt at costumery! Guy-fucking-Manson.”

 

Guy, or perhaps _not_ Guy, was stunned, teeth bared in fully fledged rage. Gaster rested his elbows upon the thickly padded arms on his chair, and steepled his fingers. It was in that instance that you noticed perfectly circular holes punched straight through Dr. Gaster’s palms, allowing you to see right through to the glimmer of his watch, and the light from the window. You tried not to stare.

Not-Guy’s lip twitched, and he let out a small snicker. His posture softened, and he began chuckling. Much to your surprise, Gaster joined in too, his laughter slight but hearty. The pair chuckled jovially, and you were left rather confused.

 

“Yeah, it's not my best work: I think I was trying too hard.” Not-Guy, Cirrus you think Gaster had called him, beamed. His shoulders relaxing as he leant against the thick beams of the bookcase.

“That is literally what I just said.” Gaster smiled with a flash of pointed white teeth, “Now, go put something decent on. You look like I should be staging an intervention for your day-time drinking problem.”

The assistant agreed, a spring in his step as he walked towards the study’s door.

“Oh, Cirrus?” Gaster called, and you deemed your inference skills sufficient as Not-Guy paused in the doorway.

“Bring me some real coffee or I'll terminate your immediately.” He pled, brushing dust from his crisp black suit.

The door was slammed shut, and you were left alone with the doctor.

 

“Guy Manson? What was that oaf thinking?” He scoffed to himself, eyes squinting when he realised you were still seated.

“Oh, of course. Welcome.” He said, not sounding particularly welcoming, and his genuine smile dropped to a blank stare, “Forgive the delay: apparently I am in need of a competent assistant, as well as a child minder.” He inclined his head, and you sat up a little straighter.

“So, you're the infamous ‘Peanut Lady’.” He began, more of a statement than a question, and a wry smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

You chirped out a small, embarrassed laugh. _Of course the nickname had stuck._ “It seems my reputation precedes me.”

 _Business time._ “That’s why I’m glad you invited me here today, so I could further expand upon our first impressions.” You nodded seriously.

“You did not leave an impression, dear.” He stated simply.

_Ouch._

“Then that's an even better opportunity. So, I have a copy of my CV for you,” You hid the sting of the comment, unbinding your documents and sliding them across the table. “Along with my previous references, work history, qualifications, and so on.”

Gaster delicately pushed the papers aside as if their presence offended him, “No need,” He drawled, “I have the digital copies, and a near-perfect memory. However, your thought for those who retain less information is rather considerate.” He added dully.

You had no answer to that.

 

“Tell me about yourself.”

_This is what you were good at._

 

“As you can tell by my extensive resume, I’m an overachiever. I like the master one area, then move onto the next, using the skills I have gained to better myself. I have an outstanding record for punctuality and reliability, and glowing references from past employers praising my high standard of work. I attain a strong work ethic to ensure all aspects of my work are high quality. Outside of work I enjoy maintaining a very successful blog, which requires constant organisational skills, applied written language and product analysis. I also have an extensive knowledge and insight into the mass production of-”

“A blog? How quaint.” Gaster cut you off.

 

“What do you feel is your biggest weakness?” He asked, wetting his lips, “If you say chocolate’, or ‘I’m a workaholic’, I will have you forcibly removed from the building.”

“Those answers are cop-outs.” You shrugged, ignoring the threats and interruptions, “I’d like to think that I’m prepared, but I often overthink things, which means I can over complicate very simple solutions. I've started taking a step back as soon as I realise that I'm doing it, so I can analyse the big picture, as opposed to unnecessary microanalysis.” You maintained eye contact as you talked.

“And what makes you think that you could possibly care for my children?” His deep voice resonated through the small room.

“Given my approachable and friendly nature, previous experience with childminding, transferable skills from other industries, coupled with my qualifications in Monster Studies and First Aid, I feel I am a viable candidate for the role.” The words fell from your lips easily; you had practiced and repeated them so often that they no longer sounded rehearsed. You smiled, proud of yourself for getting so far with the rather blunt man.

You were doing pretty well, all things considered. You’d almost forgotten how angry you were, so caught up in the interview’s questions. But then, unpredictably, things changed.

 

Gaster pushed his chair back slightly, and rifled through a desk draw. He pulled out several small black boxes, capped with clear plastic lids, and lined then in a row in front of you.

“Watches?” You puzzled, glancing down at the shimmering metals and glass.

“Do you recall the specific watch that I wore during our first encounter?” His eyes squinted as he smiled, voice holding an almost cocky lilt.

You stopped for a moment to consider the watches. Most were cold black metal, a few were plated with dazzling gold, and their combined value was possibly more than you made in a year, but there was one that caught your eye. You remembered it clearly, the look of fear in Tim’s eyes, Gaster impatiently checking the time. You withdrew a finger that was pressed against the lid of a bronze coloured watch.

 

“You're already wearing it.” You announced.

His cheshire grinned dropped slightly, a curious expression passed through his sharp features. It lasted for less than a second, a tiny, poorly hidden micro expression. His smile was back before you could register whether it was surprise or concern.

“A lucky guess.” He shrugged, piling the boxes back into the drawer. “How many mugs were set out upon the tea station?”

“One for each candidate, plus one for you, and another for Gu- for your assistant. Noone was drinking, because of the poorly kempt supplies.” You parried automatically, hoping to wipe the smugness from his grin. You were becoming further unsettled by the entire situation, anxiety pitter-pattering at across your nerves, like the falling rain outside. _You hated trick questions._

His smile began tight, “What do you think of my children?”

_Fuck._

Stealing past your nerves, you answered, “I could not possibly pass judgement given how brief our encounters were, but I look forward to meeting them properly.”

“But what do you _think?_ Be honest.” He insisted, leaning in slightly. You feel a little out of your element.

“Papyrus seems like a typical excitable child, very exuberant and eager, if not a little emotional. Sans appears very laid back, maybe a tad mature for his age; I imagine he doesn't do well under pressure, but thrives with positive reinforcement. The pair seem to get along well. But like I said, we have only met briefly.”

Your thoughts fell back to Papyrus’ concerning cough, albeit dramatic, and his teary face as his toy broke.

“What do you think of the house?”

Anger bubbled beneath your skin, and you found it difficult to maintain a professional demeanour. “It needs work.” You said through gritted teeth.

“How dissatisfying.” Gaster hummed, face falling to a frown as he leant closer. His eyes dropped to your marked tests, and his brief report upon his laptop screen, then back to you. “Your mathematics score was painfully average, though you scored the highest out of everyone on the language exam. I did enjoy the crude diagrams drawn for the optional question: very inspired. Despite showing a keen eye for detail and organisational skills, you have failed to impress me.”

“Theoretically you appear capable, but in practice you would not be suitable for the position. I would apologise, but I am not sorry in the slightest.”

 

The words took a few seconds to sink it.

“Do you have any questions?” He asked 

“Many.” You spat out, voice curt now that your interview was essentially over. Keen, pinpoint anger struck your body like electricity. _May as well burn some bridges_.

“Do you think this is an acceptable situation for two young children to grow up in, to thrive in?” You dropped your elbows heavily upon the expensive wooden desk, scrolling through the phone grasped in your hands. You were being impolite, and you were being petty just to spite the distasteful doctor, but you honestly didn't care anymore.

Gaster’s smile returned, “Of course,” He said, sickeningly sweet, almost proud.

“When did the children last see a medical professional regarding mold and damp exposure?”

“It has never posed a problem, so a visit has not been necessary.”

“So if I were to- oh, I don’t know- pass along a few pictures and a detailed report to Child Protective Services, you would be willing to testify in court that your care is adequate?” You placed your phone down on the desk top, showing the information that you had gathered in a short amount of time. Pictures of mildew that were sneakily taken during the house tour, the single rusty bed, the mess of a kitchen, the rust on the carpets, dozens of links to court cases, several telephone numbers to different department heads of Ebott City Council, precise definitions of child abuse and neglect.

“I’m sure an assessor would find everything is quite in order.” Gaster said nonchalantly.

He dropped a spindly finger to your phone’s screen, scrolling down the skim read the document.

"Very thorough. I'm impressed.” He pressed the ‘delete’ button, and the document disappeared from the screen “I’m afraid my hand slipped.”

“How unfortunate,” faux sincerity heavy in your tone, “it’s certainly a good job that I have everything saved a secure external account.” You snatched the phone back, grasping it in your pocket before irreparable damage could be done.

“Not only are actively putting your children's safety at risk, you are impeding any attempts to help!” You huffed, crossing your arms as you surveyed the doctor.

“It appears that I have been caught red handed.” Gaster held up his hands in mock surrender, and you could see the sickly brown sky through the holes in his palms. A small chuckle shook his broad shoulders. He clasped his hands together upon the desk, glee in his voice.

“Why wait? You have had ample opportunity to call an official, or did you simply wait to condemn my actions to my face, in a sense of smug victory?” He smiled unapologetically, leaning in close, “Tell me, dear: if you have all this damning evidence against me and my crimes, why haven't you already sent everything to Social Services?”

“Because I don't think you live here. I think this is some poorly conducted experiment.” You sneered, standing swiftly from the chair. You began counting off on your fingers. “Everything is just so perfectly wrong, textbook even, and I don't think you could really put your children in harm’s way: the oddly theatrical assistant, the meticulous, perfectly placed mess, the children playing upon cardboard so they didn't lay on the dirty floor, giving them lines and actions to recite, all to plant a seed of worry. Not to mention this eerie, rickety old house!”

You paused to draw in a deep breath, glaring as you spoke, “You have expensive clothes and watches, you doted upon your children when I saw you at the pet shop. This house is grand, but beyond this room there are no personal touches anywhere. You strike me as a proud man, who would display doctorates and certificates, and pictures of his family, but the entire place is barren. You even recycled the same chairs and tea cart from down stairs after the house tour. Your children, despite their dramatics, are bathed, wearing new clothes, playing happily with each other and with brand new toys- even though one of them was broken and shattered everywhe-”

“Broken toy?” Gaster jolted a little bit, looking completely off guard. His predatory smirk was replaced with wide eyes as he cut you off.

You eyed him wearily, breathing a little heavily after your long winded rant. “Yes. Papyrus broke accidentally one of his toys during his… theatrics. A bright red Transformaton by Tasbro.”

“The one with the flashing eyes and action karate-chop?” He sounded a little squeaky. You dropped heavily back into your chair, confused at the sudden turn of emotions. Your hand brushed against something papery in your pocket.

“Yeah, I knew I recognised it.” You replied absentmindedly, pulling out the toy’s decal and placing in on the desk. A pixelated sticker stared back at you, a fuzzy number plate from the back of the toy truck.

“It’s a really rare vintage from 198X. They were only on the shelves for a couple of months: the company recalled them due to a manufacturing error and the plastic walls of the toys were far too thin. What little stock remains after all these years is literally falling apart.”

“They never reproduced it, for some reason. But fans really like those rare collectables.” You added casually, dropping the final hints of professionalism from your tone.

“Guy didn't even remove the broken plastic, Doctor. What of the childrwn hurt themselves? The plastic is very sharp and brittle!” You sighed, glaring at him.

“I had an agency nanny on standby, hiding out of sight in the wardrobe whilst the children performed. I’m sure they're both okay.” He shrugged, not sounding convinced by his own words, “Not to worry, I can just buy him another one.”

“They're out of production. They haven't been in stores for XX years!” Your brow furrowed. He clearly wasn't paying attention. “People pay lots of money through online sales, or wait years for a chance to buy one from a collector.”

“Money is not an issue!” He retorted rather defiantly.

“Evidently not,” You scoffed at the bookshelves and expensive furniture. “But good luck actually finding one! People don't just sell them on a whim. Wait- where did you even find one in the first place?”

“It was a gift from a colleague,” He grumbled, eyes squinting as if challenging you. He pulled across his laptop, typing furiously.

 

There was a pregnant pause, a smug smile growing upon your face when his frown tightened into a grimace. His eyes slid back to yours as he slowly closed the laptop.

“It appears that you are correct.” He said slowly.

“It is literally my job to know these things.”

“12,000G? For reconstituted oil in the shape of a car, that is engineered to change into a ninja robot. It's not even a _scientist_ ninja robot; hardly worth the cost.” He sighed, looking off into the middle distance.

Clearly Papyrus inherited his penchant for dramatics from his father, as Gaster launched off into an internal, mournful soliloquy that played evident upon his face.

“Scarcity, manufactured or otherwise, always affects demand.” You nodded wisely, though it seemed Gaster didn't hear you over his own sorrow.

“He named it Mr. Robot! Clearly the child has yet to find his creative streak, but he makes up for it with enthusiasm.” Gaster sounded dejected, muttering under his breath, “He is going to be so upset.”

You watched the near-broken shell of a man murmur, thinking aloud to find a solution that would comfort his child.

 

A small twinge of pity wormed its way into your heart.

“I have a proposal.” You began, and Gaster perked up immediately. You didn't want to help _him,_ you told yourself, you were doing it for the children.

“I have contacts. I can get you a supplier, set up a sale, and you'll have a lovely replacement figure within the month.”

The Doctor’s eyes shone, lips pursing into a knowing smile, “And what would you have in return?”

“Answers. What's really going on here?” Your brow furrowed.

“Did you really think I’d live in this squalor?!” He exclaimed with a shudder, “This dank excuse for a house is absolutely disgusting. I have been here for mere hours and I can already feel spores lodged in my sinuses.”

“You're getting side tracked.” You sighed.

“Fine, fine. I purchased Bastion House recently in the hopes of renovating it to be used as a guest house. I scheduled the interviews at such short notice because I have contractors arriving at 1pm, and I do not want to spend any more time here than I have to. It was merely convenient to host both on the same day. The grime is unfortunately real, but I would never allow my sons to wallow in this filth. They have already left, after their possibly misguided attempt at acting out a scene of drama and despair. How else was I to know who would come the children’s aid? I have no other way of determining who I can tolerate enough to live within my household.”

“Besides you, everyone else has been terrible!” he continued, “You're faring rather well. The last one threw themselves out of the window.” He gestured an arm to the slightly open glass pane, speaking as if it were hardly a concern

“What?! Are they okay? Has a Medic been called?” You gasped, flinching in shock.

“Pssh, who knows? I am sure they are fine. They had wings, and flew away, like a dimwitted seagull with no experience caring for children.”  Upon the floor lay freshly peeled curls of paint, scraped from the windowpane in a hurried exit.

“What else do you want? You've got that smug, greedy look upon your face again.”

“Stars above, Gaster. I’ll be keeping ahold of the pictures and my report for the Social Services, if you can prove to me that this is _not_ your house, that you do not _really_ subject your children to this kind of shit-show on a regular basis. I want you to prove to me, beyond all reasonable doubt, that this was all just an elaborate mockery of an interview to find a worthy applicant. If I find that you're actually a reasonable father, then I will set up the sale.”

“That sounds... reasonable.” He nodded. “If that is everything, then I shall be taking my leave.”

“What? But there’s someone else waiting outside.” You gestured to the waiting room.

“I’ve seen enough. I’ll get Cirrus to document up a contract, and you shall receive your employment packet within the week.”

No!” You gasped at his audacity to wrangle you into such an unfavourable position. “Why are you assuming that I’d accept?”

Gaster sighed heavily, “Fine, I’ll double the pay, and bump up the benefits of holiday hours and and overtime pay.” He drummed his fingers upon the worktop, eyeing the paper sticker.

“You just don't want to do another round of interviews, do you?” You asked, maybe a touch too aggressively.

To your surprise Gaster meekly replied, “No.” and avoided eye contact the entire time. “They bore me, and I have better things to do with my time than listen to people sprout interview buzzwords that they found online.”

‘No.” You snubbed his offer.

“And why not?” He sounded offended.

 

"Would you like to know what I think of _you_?”

“Excellent. Go ahead.” He began smiling broadly at the prospect. _This Monster clearly holds a large ego,_ you grumbled internally.

“I think that you are a cruel man: not only to your children, but to others around you. You enjoy the unease people feel when you manufacture situations like this, so that you remain in control; a perfect power play for you to break down everything they expect, let them walk upon unsteady feet, for you to knock them down with unconstructive criticism and petty insults. You enjoy lording it over them, until they snap. That way you are the one that maintains this glorified air of power. You are an unabashed megalomaniac who is probably just as uncertain and insecure as everybody else. It's a facade, a thinly-veiled excuse that you know what you are doing.”

“I do so enjoy attempts at psychoanalysis. And you are correct; you over-scrutinise a touch to often. You’ll need to work on that.” He smiled as if offering the best advice in the world. _His Soul thrummed. It wasn't often that he found another able to keep up, and dish out bitter, stinging truths that he gave in return._

“I’ll tell you why I don't want the job: because I cannot be sure you won't attempt stupid shit like this again, and there is no way in hell that I am going to attempt to _fix_ you to prevent it. Constant, weary anxiety and _fucking_ psychiatry are not in the job description.” you snapped in a fit of frustration.

“But you’re the perfect candidate, though I pray you do not swear like this around children! You've shown yourself adept at looking out for them, you have the right background, the right qualifications, and you're just desperate enough to need the salary. You have potential.”

 _Ugh, was your minimum-wage aura that obvious to the multimillionaire?_ You glowered at the comment, but felt an unwarranted surge of pride, the feeling of his praise striking through your chest like a bell.

“We all get what we want this way:” He stood, brushing down his smart jacket, then folding his hands neatly behind his back, “you get an excellent wage and a secure job, I can rest safe in the knowledge that my children are in capable hands, and they enjoy the company and care of somebody they are already familiar with.” His tone had begun to drop back into his melodious, measured tone.

“Vaguely familiar with,” You declared, “We’ve met twice, and they call me ‘Peanut Lady!’”

“You're obviously thinking about agreeing.” He stated, watching you begin to pace.

 _Double salary! Benefits! More holiday hours!_ Your brain called, and you thought to the bills laying in your car.

“A little” You admitted, “But I can't make a decision just yet.”

“That’s a start, at least.” He studied the way your eyes flittered around the room as you thought, processing the information piled upon you. _It must be quite a lot for a mediocre mind,_ he mused.

 

Finally, you spoke, voice as stern as you could manage “If you prove yourself trustworthy, then I’ll think about it. Regardless of my decision, you've still got to prove to me that you're not just a manipulative father.”

“Of course.” He smiled honestly, rounding the desk. You were much smaller than he anticipated.

“I want all of that in writing, too.” You demanded as you scooped up your folder.

“Shit.” He cursed, _perhaps_ _you are a smart one after all._ He still wasn't quite sure why he was trying to prove himself to you. Though, in retrospect he never backed down from a challenge, as they were rare to come by. _He would prove you wrong, he would be the best damned father to have ever walked the earth!_

“Is that going to be a problem?” You squared up to him, shoulders back, projecting all the confidence you had left.

“Not at all.” Dr. Gaster replied smoothly, holding out a slender hand towards you. Without hesitation, you grasped it, puzzling when you felt the absent disk press up against your palm. Your grip was strong as you shook his hand.

“Send me the details, and we’ll meet tomorrow.” You ordered, though your voice was a little softer than before.

“I’ll send across the address and a time to convene.” Cirrus replied from behind you. You startled, pulling away from the doctor.

His assistant had appeared, newly dressed in a smart suit jacket with a pen clipped to the breast pocket, skinny legs clad in faded black jeans.

“Why do you still look like that?” Gaster asked over your shoulder. Cirrus did not reply, only holding the door open for you and smiling uncertainly. You flustered in surprise, managing a nod before you headed through of the archway, seeing yourself out.

 

It wasn't until you had marched autonomously through the open gate of the community that you realised something: you hadn't seen the bunny Monster in the waiting room. A small twinge of sadness set in, and you hoped she has merely changed her mind, leaving like the others. The more reasonable side of your brain argued that she would have heard the entire conversation, and thus your offer of employment. She had possibly slipped quietly away shortly after. With a great sigh, you dropped heavily into the car, exhausted after mentally sparring your way through the interview.

 

You had barely left the grounds of Newest Home when your phone chimed with a received email.

 

**From** :  Wdgaster@DreemurUni.gov

**To** :  YourProfessionalEmail@ReadMail.com

**R.E** :  Child Minder/ Full Time Nanny.

 

[ATTCH: V.1.4 FTimeCont.pdf, V.1.4.A Emp-Handbook.pdf]

 

Dear [Insert Applicant’s name here],

Congratulations on your successful path to employment for the position of [Insert Occupation Title here.]

 

Attached is your contract and employee handbook.

 

Please print a copy, enter your details and banking information, then sign and deliver your contract to confirm your position of [Insert Position Title here.]

 

The kindest regards Dr. Gaster can offer,

Which in retrospect isn't that much.

 

-Dr. M. Cirrus. PHD.

  


“Cheeky bastard.” You smirked, saving a copy of the documents to your phone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *throws confetti*  
> Here, have some answers! I upped the rating to Teen to accomodate for the swearing.
> 
> Gaster quote of the week: "Good lord, the heat death of the universe cannot come quickly enough to engulf me in a painful end. What the hell are you doing?"
> 
> Looks like Reader got a job, huh? Kinda? Sorta.
> 
> Come and say Hello over on [My Tumblr!](http://athenanuu.tumblr.com)


	4. Citadel Manor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You find yourself at Gaster's residence, to observe his family, and give the Doctor a chance to prove himself.
> 
> Will his house meet your expectations, or will you be forced to call Social Services?
> 
> If all goes smoothly, will you still accept his job offer?

The day-glo red lights of your coffee machine flickered, and you watched on as coffee halfheartedly percolated into a steaming mug. The slowly filling contents of your ceramic mug were a watery, dull brown stream that poured on and off in short, sharp spurts. Flecks of liquid stained your plastic worktops and splattered up the wall.  _ That's going to be a pain to clean up! _

“I only bought you last month! What're you doing, buddy?” You sighed, speaking in soothing tones to the inanimate object. It gurgled in response and the lights on the screen flickered again. Finally, it died, noisily letting off steam through the gaps in its lid. Wearily, you peered into the mug. The lukewarm, watered down broth foamed and swirled as you poured it down the sink: it looked too disgusting to drink.

You carefully pulled the coffee machine away from the wall, checking where it was plugged into the socket. Beyond the sweet aroma of cheap ground beans and crystallising caramel syrup, something smelt caustic and sharp: the potentially noxious fumes of burning plastic. Your nose wrinkled in disgust as you leaned over the counter, suspiciously squinting at the plastic plug. You tilted your head to listen. You could hear the ever so slight humming and snapping of electricity from behind the white plastic socket.

“Well that doesn't sound good.” You grumbled, using a wooden spoon to flick the switches off and, with a little difficulty, pull the appliances from the sockets. Something loudly sparked, and you flinched backwards. The spoon clattered onto the worktop. 

“Okay, okay. Don't throw another hissy-fit... I'm glad I kept your receipt!” You muttered.

 

Defeated, you dropped heavily onto the sofa whilst sending an email to your landlord, detailing that the wiring seemed to be failing again. The lightbulb above your head dimmed and brightened to confirm your suspicions.

You let your head sink into the cushions and you propped your feet upon the coffee table. It was routine, without question, for you to start every morning with an extra strong coffee and to continually have a steaming mug on hand throughout the day.

It was the elixir of your life, you were more coffee than human, and maybe you were a  _ teensy bit _ addicted to caffeine. Your excuse was that you simply liked the taste, but without the caffeine to adhere to your so called sleepy-receptors, your eyes would be drooping by mid afternoon. It was a vicious cycle, but you were thoroughly (yet happily) caught within the cruel mistresses clutches.

According to Dr. Gaster’s email,  _ which was probably sent by his assistant, Dr. Cirrus, _ you were expected at the Gaster manor in the next hour, so there was time to pick up a cup of joe on route. Mind made up, you threw a jacket across your shoulders, and shut off the electricity at the mains, just in case a technician came around whilst you were out.

  
  


~

  
  


GalaxyCoffee was packed, and though you were next in line, you couldn't help but feel a little impatient. Of course, the workers were moving as fast as they could given the rush hour, and you completely sympathised with the stress of busy retail periods, though the situation only made you only more grateful for your self employment.

Maybe you were feeling anxious about the meeting with Gaster? 

_ No,  _ you balked internally,  _ anything but anxiety. He'd smell it on you like a bloodhound! _

You dug around in your purse, counting out the exact change for your drink, but a familiar voice called out from across the counter and shook you from your musings.

 

“Large frappuccino with a triple shot, extra caramel!” 

 

You glanced up as your name was called. He smiled as your eyes met, and your friend beckoned you over. A little dumbstruck, you blinked as the iced drink was thrust into your hand. 

“Dane, I haven't even ordered yet!” You finally gaped. Cold droplets of condensation ran down the plastic cup and clung to your fingertips. 

Dane rolled his eyes, yet smiling broadly, “Pshh, you order the same thing every time! ‘Might as well cut out the middleman and make it as soon as you step into the shop.” His green eyes shone with mischievous pride.

“Am I getting too predictable?” You pouted, holding out the cash for your coffee. Dane snickered in response. 

“I’d be worried if you ever slipped out of routine! It's not predictable, per se, more like reliable.” He glanced down at the coins waiting in your palm, and stuck his hands in the front pocket of his apron. “Don’t even think about it. Treats are on me today: you look grumpy.”

In a fit of flustered ire you poked out your tongue and dropped the cash into the tip jar.  _ Hah!  _ You smirked, feeling satisfied in besting him. The gesture was sweet, regardless _. _  
  


“How come you're dressed up all fancy?” He motioned to your smart shirt, intentionally letting himself become oblivious to the growing queue behind you. 

The iron-hot stare of many eyes burnt on the back of your neck, and you could feel their unquenchable desire for coffee prickling in the air. The words “queue jumper” were muttered by a grating, masculine voice a few feet away, and you bristled self-consciously.

 

“I kinda got a new job, I think? I've been offered one, and he seems eager to have me on board, but I've set up strict terms that need to be in action before I accept.” You shrugged, trying to act nonchalant, dipping a finger into the dense blob of whipped cream floating atop your drink. It was thick and sweet against your tongue. 

“Uh,” Dane watched you with a puzzle grin, “You know, the straws have tiny spoons on the other end so you don't have to use- wait- what do you mean you  _ kinda _ got a job? I didn't even know you were job hunting again! What terms are you asking for?” He quizzed.

“Well, I may or may not be blackmailing my kind-of-but-not-quite boss into upholding said terms. First of all- actually, it's a long story, and you look really busy.” You glanced over your shoulder to the line of customers. The servers were working hard, sweating as they dashed about their work stations, but a heavily wrinkled face glowered back at you. 

You quirked a brow, and turned back to your friend.

“That sounds ominous. Questionable, and maybe illegal, but juicy gossip nonetheless.” He snorted, passing over a small paper bag. You could smell something even sweeter than your coffee permeating from inside the bag.

“Hush!” Dane pressed a finger to his lips before you even had chance to protest.

“Is everything still going ahead tonight?” You asked, fidgeting in place. From the queue behind you, somebody tutted and gave an exasperated, impatient sigh.

“Of course! The party is still on, so you can tell me everything later! I'll see you around 7?”

You shoved your purse and the brown bag into your tote. “Great. I'm so excited to give you this present!” You grinned happily, and apprehensive excitement made your insides flip, “We’ll catch up soon!”

“It better not be socks! ‘See you later.” 

His laughter was as smooth and rich as the coffee in your hands, you mused as you pushed upon the door.

  
  


Dane chuckled to himself as you left, and he turned to the next customer. He was supposed to be in the office, scheduling the next week’s rota and typing up wholesale orders, but an unforeseen rush of customers had swept his staff off their feet: it was only right that he help out.

An old man grunted his order, and ignored the cashier’s questions about his coffee in favour of staring at his mobile phone, slowly tapping away at the buttons.

The cashier waited.  _ Her feet ached: new shoes hadn't worn in yet, and they rubbed rather painfully against her achilles tendons. She hoped it wouldn't bleed, but the skin felt raw and tender.  _

_ Only two more hours until my break,  _ she thought.

“Would you like that as a small, medium, or large?” The tall brunette asked, and her pretty smile drooped.

“Yes.” He gruffed.

She internally sighed, and repeated the question.

“Don't complicate this! I just want a damned black coffee, is that too much to ask for?” He barked, pushing his square shoulders back defensively.

“Sir. Would you like that as a medium black coffee?” The cashier tried once more, and the man’s cheeks wobbled when he gave a curt nod. 

“Is that to drink in, or take away?” She asked, slightly bouncing upon the balls of her feet, and she typed his order onto the large electronic screen of her till.

“Out.” He focused back to the phone, muttering, “...and they want to get paid  _ even more _ for making a bloody coffee.”

Barely a minute later, Dane called out the man’s painfully extracted name and order, and he placed the takeaway, cardboard coffee cup in the to-go section.

The old man waited until he neared Dane to loudly complain about the inconvenient wait and other customers getting free coffee.

“You haven't paid my cashier yet, Sir. That’ll be 4G, please.” Dane smiled.

Finally pocketing the incredibly important work on his phone, the senior slapped a meaty hand upon the worktop, and demanded to speak to a manager. Dane desperately wanted to roll his eyes, but let his voice drip with saccharine sincerity.

“But sir,” Dane began, a bright, fake grin plastered across his teeth, and he tapped the plastic nametag pinned to his chest, “ _ I  _ am the Manager. How can I help?” 

The old man’s face sucked inwards, as if his thin lips were coated in sour lemon juice. His wrinkled hands slammed a few gold coins upon the counter, and he grabbed his coffee cup before stomping out of the store, grumbling all the while.

Dane counted the coins, handing them across to the relieved cashier, and he slipped the extra into the tip jar.

  
  


~

  
  


The guard dog Monster, whom you later discovered was aptly named Guard Dogg, barked in recognition as you stepped up to the gate’s control kiosk. 

“Hello again! Yes, I’m back.” You smiled, pushing another visitor’s entrance slip through the slot beneath the glass window. 

Thick slobber dripped from his fluffy jowls, landing straight onto the desk, only narrowly missing your paperwork. He offered an apologetic yip before wiping the drool away with cleaning fluid and a rag. With surprisingly dexterous paws, he stamped your papers, tearing away his carbon copy, and handing the original back to you. Guard Dogg unlocked a large metal drawer beneath the kiosk desk, filed the copied entrance slip away, and turned back to you.

“BARK BARK! BARK BORK BORK BARK BARK. BARK.. BORK BORK?” Guard Dogg’s shoulders shook as he talked animatedly, and he locked the metal drawer. His pink tongue lolled forth from his open maw, and he panted heavily with excitement.

“I can't stop for pats, I’m afraid.” You signed into the visitor’s book, and passed the pen back through the hatch. “Maybe another day?” 

Guard Dogg was visibly disappointed, floppy ears drooping sadly down his temples. His black eyes grew large, glittering with sadness.

“Oohh,” You held a hand to your chest, as if pained by the pitiful display, “Not the puppy dog eyes! You know I can't resist them!”

“Bark bark baark.” He whined, and pressed his snout against the window. The glass was smudged with nose-prints and long lines of saliva that were yet to be cleaned away.

“I know, I know. Next time, I'll come by extra early and we can catch up, I promise!” You held back a giggle when his entire body perked up at the prospect. You were feeling chipper and just as excitable with the strong coffee running through your system.

“BORK BARK BARK! BARK BARK BOWWOW!” He happily bellowed within the tiny booth, not forgetting his duty as he pressed a button to open the gate.

“Thanks. I'll see you later!” You waved as you stepped through the open gate, and familiar barrier magic shivered across your body. 

_ You weren't sure if you would ever get used to the feeling of the barely restrained power. It smoldered with apprehension, like waiting for more than just a static shock upon your skin. _

 

~

 

Gaster paced the length of his study, the solid heels of his shoes clicked against smooth, polished wood flooring. He needed something to occupy his busy mind, something to distract him from the strange sensation of churning within his gut. 

_ No,  _ Gaster scolded as he paced to the door,  _ it is not anxiety _ !  _ She’d mistake it for weakness and suck upon it like a leach. _

He spun on his heel and walked back to the large, open window across the room. Gaster claimed to no longer hold the capacity for anxiety, for he has apparently outgrown such a thing, and he was far too proud to admit nervousness.  _ It is merely… hmm, something. Perhaps excitement? Fear? No.. Gods no, anything but that,  _ he pondered, with his hands clasped neatly against his back.  _ Maybe it's a sudden onset neurological condition, or a perforated bowl? _ His face set into a hard scowl, grey lips pinching in disgust.  _ How do regular folk deal with this time consuming fretting? Where on earth is she-? _

There was a gentle knock against his door.

“Daddy?” A small voice called.

Gaster paced back to the mahogany doorway. “Come in, silly sausage.” His taut shoulders finally sagged, relaxed, and his warm smile grew as the door swung open. 

Papyrus clung to the doorknob, fingertips running against the cold, smooth metal. 

“Papa! Peanut Lady is here!” He sang excitedly, “Sans is telling her jokes!” 

Gaster jolted, “She’s here already?” He marched past his son, unable to bring himself to correct the child and tell him your real name. 

Checking the watch buckled around his wrist. 

_ Early, of course.  _

He jogged down the first flight of stairs, “I didn't even hear the doorbell!”

Papyrus skittered behind him, trying to keep pace with his father’s long legs. Dr. Gaster stopped upon the landing of the next stairs, waiting patiently for his youngest. 

“Don't run, dear: you'll trip, and fall and break both your legs.” He cooed, momentarily forgetting his rush. Papyrus plopped heavily upon the top step, breathing hard as he reached up a tiny hand.

“Daddy, please come down with me.” He asked squeakily, and shuffled to make room for his father to perch next to him. Gaster paused, before lowering himself to sit. His long legs reached out past a few steps, whereas Papyrus’ barely reached the next.

“Don’t worry, Papa, I'll go slow so you can keep up. But you gotta hold my hand, okay?” His smile was proud and toothy. 

Gaster shook his head, but gently clasped his son’s much smaller hand.

“‘You have to hold my hand’, or, ‘you must hold my hand’” He corrected, and Papyrus repeated, mimicking his father’s tone.

“Good,” Gaster nodded, “Now show me how it's done.” 

Papyrus scooted his bottom down onto the next step down, using his heels to control his descent, shuffling down to the next step. 

“You gott- you have to use your feet to make sure you don't slip!” Papyrus spoke wisely. Gaster followed suit, his lanky legs bent as he humored the child.

Papyrus squeezed his father’s hand, and held his other tiny hand securely to the banister’s posts, “That’s good! Now we do that  _ all _ the way down, to the bottom step.”

They scooted their way down, only walking to cross the landings, chattering as they tackled the final flight of steps upon their bottoms. From their vantage point, the Doctor could see the front door and entrance, and your clean blue shoes lined neatly upon the shoe-rack.

Gaster chuckled as the child continued babbling, “We’ve not got a long way to go, but we need to hurry because Sans is making the Lady some tea!”

He gasped, a sliver of worry worming into his chest, “What? Sans better not touch that stove!” He stood and scooped up his son, who instinctively wrapped his thin bony arms around his father’s neck.  _ What on earth would you think, if he let his young son use the damned stove by himself!? _

 

Dr. Gaster hurried down the steps, taking them two at a time as he clutched Papyrus to his chest. His hurried footsteps rang from stone clad walls, and even through his house-shoes, the chill crept in.  _ Perhaps it was time to adjust the thermostat. _

“Sans! If you've touched even a single dial on the kettle-” He did not need to shout, nor raise his voice, for his natural booming filled the hallways. However, his words were cut short when he entered the kitchen and stooped to gently place Papyrus upon the floor.

Gaster didn't even have time to adjust his mussed up shirt when you span in your chair, looking up at him with wide, blinking eyes. You were sat upon a stool at the dining table, with Sans seated across. The poor child’s face fell, his eye sockets growing impossibly large.

Gaster noticed the steaming mugs upon the table, and he grumbled.

“What do you have to say for yourself?” He smoothed his shirt and raised his brow expectedly. Sans gawped up at him. 

Finally, you spoke. 

“Uh, hello Dr. Gaster.” You tilted your head, watching the small child peeking out from behind his father’s legs. “Hello Papyrus!” You smiled, but the boy flushed orange and hid once more.

The Doctor’s head snapped to watch, and he noticed your pupils were dilated. He wasn't sure what to make of that.

“Good afternoon.” He supplied, glancing at Sans every so often.

 

“You do know that I wouldn't let a child touch the oven, let alone make scalding hot drinks for everyone, right?” You quizzed, trying to hold an airy tone, but it verged upon accusatory.  _ Ah yes,  _ you scolded yourself,  _ a wonderful way to start today. _

Gaster’s mouth opened as if to bite something out, but his jaw snapped shut with an audible  _ click! _

“That never occurred to you, did it?” You quirked a brow and Sans snorted at your audacity. It wasn't often that Sans heard someone speak to his father like that without consequence.

“Heh, nice. Hey Pappy, look: Peanut Lady made hot chocoa!” Sans patted the stool next to him, and his brother immediately scurried up the chair. 

“There’s marshmallows!” They squealed reverently.

“I also made a drink for you,” You smiled sweetly up at the Doctor, and pulled out the other stool with one hand, “Sans mentioned that you take your coffee black?” 

“A coffee will not win me over, it is merely a consolation prize.” He wearily took a seat, but accepted the hot ceramic mug.

“Hey, who's judging whom here? You're supposed to be winning  _ me _ over.” You chuckled, and despite the tone of the conversation, your words held no bite. _ Perhaps it is because the children are around?  _ Gaster wondered as he sipped.

 

The table was quiet for a moment as you all savoured the warmth of the mugs on such a chilly day, and Sans was the one to break the silence.

“So, did you two have a nice trip down the stairs?” He asked wryly, and gave an exaggerated wink in your direction.

You choked on your drink, swallowing deeply before sputtering a little. 

“It is undignified to spy on people, Sans.” Gaster warned, though his face heated.

“If you ask me, it's undignified for a grown-up to scoot down the stairs like a dog with worms!” Sans doubled over with laughter, and Gaster slapped a hand to his face, massaging the bridge of his nose. Tears dotted in the corners of your eyes as you fought back another coughing fit.

“I think it is time you two start on your homework.” The worn father sighed.

“But Papa, you haven't introduced us yet!” Papyrus nudged his empty mug into the centre of the marble tabletop, and wiped tiny drips of hot chocolate from his chin.

Dr. Gaster finally removed his hands from his eyes, “But you've already met?” 

“Yeah, Papa, but why is she here?” Sans asked sincerely.

“It’s rude to talk about someone who's listening.” You smiled knowingly at the children. Sans bashfully apologised, and you pressed on. “I'm here because your father and I have something important to discuss.” 

“Are you going to be our nanny?” Papyrus gasped, rocking in his chair excitedly. 

_ Ah shit _ . You hated disappointing people.

“Erm, perhaps that is something we will talk about later, right Doctor?” You glanced across and he nodded in confirmation. Your neck was already getting strained from craning up at the Monster.  _ Why did he have to be so damn tall? _

“Of course.” He agreed monotonously, “come along you two. I'll set up your supplies on the coffee table.” Gaster stood swiftly, motioning for the children to follow, and you were left along at the kitchen’s island, nursing your cooling drink.  
  


 

The house really was everything you had expected, and more. Situated upon the very outskirts of the community and gated within its own borders, the building was tall and grand, perched in the centre of a vast plot of land. You were rather surprised to find that the lawn was not clipped down to the nearest millimeter, nor manicured perfectly. Though it was free of sprouting ivy and thorny weeds, soft wildflowers bloomed between the rugged tufts of grass, spotting bright colours in the ocean of green. Swooning willows and broad silver birch trees created a natural enclosure around the gardens, offering privacy despite the open acres. 

Beyond a disused, rough brick gatehouse lay a large gravel driveway with a single  _ thoroughly expensive _ black car parked by the front door. You wondered if you would be able to park there too, instead of walking from the visitor’s carpark-  _ if _ you took the job, of course.

The entire house beckoned an almost medieval atmosphere, from the large rounded front door of thick wood and ruddy iron bolts, to the white clad exterior decorated with dark timber beams. The stained glass windows appeared centuries old, but restored to a shimmering glory that painted the floors inside with rainbow hues. 

What little of the interior you had seen held wide open spaces, towering ceilings and huge windows, soft rugs and carpets, and expensive furnishings. Soothing earthen stones lined the walls, ragged and unhewn yet smoothed with age. The floors were of similar stone but cut and polished, or covered in long planks of a dark, creaking wood. Tall rocky columns lined the entryway and grand foyer, though you weren't sure whether they were decorative and alluding to some strange grandeur, or supportive of the household’s structure. Off to the side, thick cut slabs of carpeted wood served as a staircase, with a smooth stone banister leading up from the main lobby to the first of three stories. You could see right through the archway ahead into a kitchen, but you let Sans take the lead.

Sans had taken on the role of tiny gentlemen as he greeted you at the door, and he showed you to the living room, though a highly detailed, carved open archway into a large, fully kitted out kitchen and dining area. Shiny chrome and mottled marble surfaces stood in contrast with the rest of the building, but the area seemed homely and lived in, as opposed to an ornamental facade of a house.

Sans mentioned a pool house in the gardens, but you doubted his claims of the house holding ‘at least a hundred and twelve bathrooms and bedrooms.’ As amusing as the claims were, you took a little peek online and found a rather old sales page on a real estate website. According to the listing, there were seven bedrooms, a smaller guest room, and several boasted private bathrooms. You weren’t sure if Gaster had remodeled after the listing, but you were itching to see the rest of the house.

 

_ Citadel Manor _ . 

It was exactly as you'd envisioned a stately home, fit for the famous learned man and his young sons.

 

As you listened to the slightly muffled voices of the children, and the deep, soothing tones of Dr. Gaster, you imagined that you could fit into the family quite nicely.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops- it seems that life decided to kick me in the shins and stick chewing gum in my hair, so I had to take a little breather for a while. But now I'm back!
> 
> Anyway, this chapter got to, like, 8000 words so I decided to cut it into two for the sake of easy-reading.
> 
> This chapter was fun, hehe :3c


	5. There's No Such Thing As "Too Much Coffee"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A half chapter, whilst I edit the rest.
> 
> Gaster seems to be making more assumptions than you are. Coffee is amazing, but it doesn't cure the Doctor's grumpiness.

 

"You appear to be lost in thought. Is something bothering you?” Gaster’s voice rang out from beneath the kitchen’s doorway.

Your heart leapt into your throat, and your head snapped away from the window with a quick draw of breath. It surprised you that the Doctor held so much tact to make his presence known and hadn't just crept right up alongside you. He was leaning casually against the archway, looking like he wasn't sure what to do with his arms. For a man who often gave lectures and talks in front of hundreds of people, he sure seemed uncertain of you, and didn't particularly sound concerned: he possibly just wanted to fill the silence, or make you aware of his arrival.

“Ah, hello.” You gave an embarrassed chuckle, “I was just admiring the grounds. I bet the gardens are nice in the summer: plenty of space for the boys to play outside.” 

You had been so caught up in your own thoughts that you never heard anything to give away Gaster’s approach; though at the same time you were sure that even if you  _ had _ been paying attention, you would have still been none the wiser to his quiet stalking.

“They spend most of their summers playing in a treehouse atop one of the older willows, just behind the poolhouse.” Gaster’s usually sombre expression brightened into a gentle smile, and his warm tone carried softly across the room.

“I’d love to see it.” You found yourself saying, and Gaster raised a brow questioningly. You turned away, cheeks heating at being caught staring.  _ How unprofessional _ , you thought. “I mean, if I decide- uh, I'm sure in winter it's far too cold to be out there for any length of time. Though I must admit, a heated pool sounds tempting.”  _ Nice save, idiot. _

It was Gaster’s turn to laugh. It was knowing, soft, and deep as his speaking voice. 

“Of course.” He murmured.  _ Shit.  _ He paused as his internal dialogue ran at a hundred miles an hour:  _ How on Earth does one treat a guest on a visit like this _ ? To buy time he cleared his throat.  _ How does one show caring and hospitality? _

 

“Would you like a drink?” 

_ Smooth. Perfect. Excellent. _

 

You glance down at the dregs of cold coffee in your mug, mulling over your blood caffeine levels: it wasn't enough. It was never enough...

“Yes, please.” You slipped from the stool and followed behind Gaster to one of the longer counters. He opened cupboards and busied himself with a cafetiere as you rinsed out both of your cups. Despite being in the house for no more than an hour, you had unofficially claimed the royal purple mug painted with white cats in black top hats. It was much more cheerful than the hoard of brown earthenware cups and clear glass mugs on the shelves.

“How fancy,” You cooed with a pleased grin, “Sans told me to help myself to the instant coffee, but this is certainly an upgrade.”

The Doctor shook his head, “Usually, I do not have the time to spare on situations like this, so the rare weekend off is appreciated.” He took the device apart and heated the glass container with the leftover kettle water

The water splashed noisily down the sink, and he dumped several scoops of rich ground beans into the jar. “Besides, the instant coffee is for the guests that I dislike.”

“What, you mean the cheapo instant coffee that kinda tastes like fish?” You gasped in mock surprise. 

“It cost 4 Gold for the entire jar, and I like them to leave with a bad taste in their mouths, just as they do mine.” He gave you a devious smile, not watching as he tipped the kettle and filled the coffee to a perfect level. A thoroughly practiced measure.

“Why does that not shock me? But if I'm getting fancy coffee, does this mean I've won you over?” You tease, drumming your fingernails upon the white marble worktop.

Gaster scoffed as he slid across a fresh mug filled with dark, steaming coffee, “No. I am merely neutral. You are…  _ tolerable. _ ” and he offered no further explanation. It was rather satisfying to rile him up.

“Well it's a start.” The coffee tasted much bolder and fresher than the one you had made earlier.  _ Yum. _

There was a soft moment of silence as you both leant against the kitchen island, sipping your drinks and listening to the boys chattering in the living room.

“I bet it's difficult tearing yourself away from the boys to work so often.” 

“Ah yes, a thoroughly modern dilemma of the nuclear family.” Gaster chuckled softly, “Though it is strange that you have yet to take this to the authorities if you have such strong convictions. Is there any particular reason as to  _ why? _ ” He asked, making little effort to disguise the venomous curiosity in his voice.

“Because!” You frowned into your coffee and your shoulders stiffen, “This isn't something I take lightly and I need to be sure of my decision, with evidence and such. If I am right then justice will be served. However, if I'm wrong and have charged headstrong into a simple assumption, it would unnecessarily tear a family apart and become an irreparable smudge on your reputation, not to mention a traumatic experience for the children. I'm not heartless, you know.” 

Gaster shifted as the thought, clasping his long fingers tighter around the steaming mug. “You don't like to be wrong, do you?” 

You let out a derisive snort, “Of course this is one of the few times that I would very much enjoy being wrong.” You raise your mug towards the Doctor, “Here’s to hoping that you're just an asshole!”  _ You pretended that you never saw the swear jar on the counter that was filled to the brim with coins and notes. _

Much to your surprise, he lifted his cup and tapped the side of it against your own. A soft  _ ting _ rang through the quiet of the kitchen, and you were left with a genuine hope that you could swallow your pride if you turned out to be wrong, because you very much wanted the job.

 

“Come along,” Gaster set his mug aside. "I have something to show you…”

 

~

 

“Is this… adequate?” Gaster asked. His voice was oddly soft, and his face was disguised in the dim light. You were sure he was taking pleasure in your discomfort and uneasy groans.

“It's quite hard, but I'm sure it'll hurt less over time.” You finally let out a blissful sigh, clutching at the pillow beneath your head.

“What a lovely view.” He murmured and wet his lips.

You nestled further into the bed and the mattress creaked beneath your weight. You ran your fingers across the silk sheets and revelled in the luxury. “Feels pretty good, actually. Ah- I could get used to this.” Your legs shook as you tried to relax, but his unwavering gaze left you feeling self-conscious.

“Of course it does. It cost 1,500 Gold.” Gaster gave a haughty scoff.

You sat bolt upright on the bed, staring at the Doctor as he stood beneath the large bay window.

“1,500 Gold. For a mattress that feels like it was carved from a boulder?” You gawped and kicked your legs over the side of the bed, and your feet touched upon the dense, soft carpeting. You padded alongside the doctor, peering through the window that overlooked the vast gardens.

“I wanted the lodgings to be as comfortable as possible to ensure the carer works at their best. The bed provides optimal support whilst sleeping.” He stated matter-of-factly and drew the blinds. The brief house tour ended with a viewing of the accommodation that came with the position, and you insisted on trying out the bed. He was right: the room was sparsely furnished with space for further personalisation, freshly decorated, with expensive light fittings and carpets, and the queen sized four poster bed was magnificent. You smoothed out the sheets and propped the pillows in their correct place.  _ It made your cheap single bed feel like garbage in comparison. _

“There's also a memory-foam top sheet in the wardrobe if necessary.” He hummed and held the door open for you.

“Oh Gaster, you're speaking as if I’ve made it through the month long probation period, let alone accepted the position.” You playfully scolded. The Doctor’s feathers were positively ruffled as you followed him down the stairs, yet you still felt the need to tease.

“What, not going scoot down this time?” You stifled a giggle, and bit your lip as he paused on a step, face tight with seething rage. He pointed a clawed finger, glowering up at you to your position on a higher step.

“Now listen here you-  _ you-” _

_ “Papa!”  _ Came the cry of a muffled voice, and Gaster’s protests were cut short. You both hurried down the stairs, but you couldn't help the smug grin that spread across your face. _One point for me!_ You internally cackled with glee and joined the children at the coffee table.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I've been gone for a while. I'm sorry 3:  
> Here's half a chapter that has been sat in my documents folder for weeeeeks! 
> 
> The rest of the chapter will be up soon, and we'll help the Skelebabies with their homework, and talk about the absent members of the family... ;V


	6. Catapults, Homework, and Even More Coffee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Gaster nearly has an aneurysm over homework AND the School Board, you finally discover how Gaster performs as a father (sorta),  
> and you drink even more coffee. And then vodka, probably.

 

You were peeved that the boys were stuck inside on a Saturday, doing homework no less, but you supposed the weather was beyond your control and the routine would be good for them in the long run.

“What ever is the matter to cause such squawking?” Gaster asked in a tone of disbelief as he took a seat in a reclining leather armchair. He looked down at his children with narrowed violet eyes and Papyrus gave a dramatic, exasperated sigh.

“We've been calling for ages and ages! I had to use my OUTSIDE VOICE to get your attention.” Papyrus demonstrated, and you cringed. For a skeleton, he sure had a powerful set of lungs. _Yikes_.

“Dad, how do you say this word?” Sans asked politely, pointing to a piece of text on his homework sheet. You hovered awkwardly, wondering what they were working on. The chairs and sofas were plush and inviting, but you chose to sit on the floor with the boys, huddling around the low wooden coffee table. You were grateful that your smart pants (A.K.A a pair of neatly pressed black jeans) were stretchy and allowed you to comfortably cross your legs: kneeling daintily in your usual tight pencil skirt would have been a pain!

Gaster leaned in closer and squinted a little. “Ah, that is ‘trebuchet’, typically pronounced ‘treb-yew-shay.’”

“Trebuchet.” They mimicked. You leaned across and scanned the page.

“Oh, is this physics? I vaguely remember doing an experiment like this in high school: it was a team building exercise, but it was still fun.” You nodded in approval as the boys turned to face you. “So, you both go to City Central School? What year are you both in?”

"I'm ahead by 2 years, 8th Year.” Sans shrugged, and his cheeks turn a bashful blue.

“Papa says ‘I'm getting there’!” Papyrus proudly declared whilst pushing his chest out. “2nd Year!”

“Wow, that's impressive.” You overplay the reaction a little. Children at their ages needed to build confidence in their skills, though being the children of Doctor Gaster, you weren't surprised at their intellect.

“Hm, their after-school tutor is currently unavailable: he has taken an absence of paternity leave as his spouse has given birth to quadruplets.”

You let out a low whistle of admiration, “Quadruplets, eh? That sounds like quite a handful.”

“Fire elementals too.” Gaster shuffled backwards into his armchair and folded one long leg over the other. His white house slippers declared ‘World's Best Dad’ sloppily stitched in black thread. You briefly wondered if the children had made them as a gift. “Therefore, in the coming months I will be assigning homework in line with their school syllabus to ensure their grades do not slip.”

“Does the school not supply homework through the week?” You quirk your head, and as soon as the sentence had fallen from your lips, Sans let out a tiny “Uh-oh.”  

Gaster took a breath and seamlessly launched into another passionate rant that ramped up from ‘barely restrained anger’ to ‘seething rage’ quicker than you could blink.

“Are you aware of homework’s purpose?” The thick scar that stretched across his cheek, down from his lower eyelid to the corner of his lip, creased awkwardly as he sneered. The timbre of his voice lowered to dangerous levels.

“Uhm, to put into practise whatever they had learned that day, to, like, reaffirm it in their minds?” You shrug, not giving him the satisfaction of cowering at the display- if that was even his intent.

“Precisely! Even the simplest of minds understand” He wildly waved his arm, gesturing at you as he spat out his words. You scowled at the statement, but he barely took another breath before continuing, “Though children have many varied learning styles, it has been proven time and time again that reading and writing- or at the very least a kinesthetic approach- are more applicable to those who have trouble retaining information, and basic homework _should_ serve to cement the learning plans of the classroom in a home setting. None of this ‘Write a ten page essay’ bullshit, because none of the information is retained, and the parents are often the ones who completed these ridiculous tasks! It's all to prepare them for inconsequential final exams, as opposed to the real meaning of homework. Simple questionnaires, or at least a basic exercise of the core ideas are more than adequate, and further expansion for the more complex syllabi is brought about by easily adjustable levels of difficulty for the different learning years. I swear, teachers are not paid enough to deal with the pressure from plebeian board members who have not actually worked with children in 50 years! The sycophantic bespawlers only work in education thanks to nepotism and fat bonuses that are, quite frankly, never deserved! And don't get me started upon the pressures placed upon children to overachieve in standardised testing, all for the sake of an outdated cock measuring contest between other school districts.”

 

There was a moment of silence. Papyrus was almost oblivious to the rant, happily counting out the plastic drinking straws lined up on the table. Sans massaged the ridge of his nose with his eye-sockets scrunched tightly closed, and he quietly muttered “Another for the swear jar.”

You blinked up at the Doctor.

“Uhh...” Was all you could say, far too hesitant to further continue the conversation, lest Gaster exploded in an horrendous homework-fueled accident. His adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed down whatever words were burning upon his tongue.

“My apologies: this is a point of great contention between myself and the school board, yet the bastards do not listen to me because I'm not _on_ the board. I have more money and doctorates than the lot of them combined, but alas: you don't get invited back after you tell the chairman’s wife that her lemonloaf tastes like somebody would be able to sue for damages for having it inflicted upon them.” He massaged his temples as if the conversation had given him a headache, and he finally glanced across to you. The ridge between his brows creased deeper as you gazed up at him with bright, wide eyes and a wildly confused expression.

“You didn't!” You fought back appalled laughter, and gasped in horror, though it was not an action entirely brought about by disbelief. _It was, unfortunately, believable. You were willing to bet he was a nightmare at parent-teacher meetings._

“I’m going to make more coffee.” He said suddenly, attempting to scoot out of the room with as much grace as possible, but it didn't really work. He looked like a cat that was caught climbing the curtains and subsequently spritzed with water, feet slipping a little as he scurried away. It was so different from his usual calculated stalk that you were caught off guard. The words ‘What the fuck’ were caught upon the tip of your tongue _._ You recalled the swear jar. _Probably best to rephrase that._

 

You raised a brow at the two children and whispered, “What was that about?”

Sans snorted and finally set down his pen, “He’s a dork.”

“ME TOO!” Papyrus beamed, trying to untangle the elastic bands from around his fingers. You chuckled and set to work freeing him.

“C’mon, let me help. Tell me about what you're working on.” You said as you began plucking at the woven bands. “How on earth did you get into these?” You laughed.

“Okay, so we've gotta build a torsion catapult with these straws, spoons, some string and elastic bands, hot glue, and we have to get them to fire these marshmallows.” Sans read aloud, paraphrasing from his sheet and slowly chomping his way through a split open bag of soft white mini mallows.

“Do you have the same homework, Papyrus?”

“Yes! Papa said there's enough lower level stuff for me to do, and I can try the Sans level questions if I want to.” He said, and then hissed out in a not-quite-whisper, “I think Papa couldn't be bothered to make two different homework sheets!” His giggle was high and contagious.

“Possibly! I bet he'd say it's more efficient this way.” You tittered to yourself. “Why don't I read out the instructions for the catapult whilst you guys build? That way you don't have to worry about getting the order wrong.”

“That would be helpful. This catapult is more difficult than the one I made in class.” Sans nodded.

“Great! I’ll try not to get in the way so you guys can figure out problems by yourselves, but if you get really stuck then just ask for help. You ready? Okay, first we need to build the frame: take two straws, cut them both in half and glue them together at the corners to make a sturdy, flat square base.”

You paused to make sure Sans would be supervised whilst using the hot glue gun, and to make sure Papyrus kept his hands well away. Sans assured that he was even able to safely use a soldering iron, and hot glue was much easier to control. Papyrus quipped that bones don't even burn, but adamantly refused to risk it. _And yet Gaster had worked himself into a frenzy about the kettle._ Regardless, you watched carefully, just in case.

“Second step: we make the side supports and lay the foundation for the crank mechanism-”

 

~

 

Ten minutes later, you had reached the final step.

“And lastly- which I personally think is the best step- we load the catapult arm with a mini marshmallow, release the mechanism, and fire!” You looked up from the piece of paper to watch a blur of white whizz across the room.

“Wow, that is going to be a pain to clean up!” You laughed. “Sans, your model is wonderful. It looks very sturdy; I bet you're great in the workshop!”

“I added lots of glue in the joints to make sure it didn't fall apart when the arm moves.” He said whilst carefully resetting the torsion arm.

“And what about yours, Papyrus, how does your model looks?” You shuffled to turn towards the younger sibling.

Amongst the discarded pile of half-built catapult parts, Papyrus proudly held up a miniature skeleton with bones of straw, all threaded together with yarn and jointed with elastic.

“IT'S ME!” He wriggled with excitement, and the plastic model danced with the movement.

“Woah, that is really cool. Are those hinged finger joints?!” You bent over the table to take a closer look. “Wait- sorry- this is really creative but it doesn't follow the homework. Where did you get lost, Sweetie?” You ask gently.

“Step 25, I think? It was getting so long and boring.” Papyrus sighed, slowly lowering his eyes to the parts strewn about coffee table. “I'm sorry, I'll do it properly this time.”

“Oh no, no, it's okay. It was a very long assembly so it's okay if it didn't hold your attention. It's my fault really: I should’ve checked up on you more.” You gave him a soft apologetic smile. “Why don't we use Sans’ model to answer these questions, then we can go show Gas- your father your cool anatomical model?” You grinned when Papyrus perked up, though his enthusiasm was still damped.

“And _then_ we can watch cartoons!” He attempted.

“That's the spirit! Get your pencils ready. I'll read these questions aloud, but I don't think I can help this time as you should have covered these in school, but don't worry if it's too difficult.” You stated, having to brush stray strands of glue and random pieces of string from the page before you could continue.

“Ready? First question: explain the physics behind the marshmallow firing from the catapult. Try to write a few clear points explaining where the energy is stored and how that moves the arm. Sans, write a little about the transference of energy.”

You demonstrated firing the catapult a few times, and moving it manually for them to see it in slow motion. The only sounds heard over the next minutes were the scribbling of pens and thoughtful hums, and your clear voice reading the questions. Occasionally, a strange and primal instinct would kick in and you'd sense eyes boring into the back of your neck, but each time you glanced over your shoulder to see what it was, the archway to the kitchen was empty.

You swallowed down your nerves and quietly spoke, “Mind if I ask you guys a few questions?”

Sans quirked a brow as he moved onto the next question without you, but they both nodded.

“How did it make you feel when your dad asked you to, uh, perform for those people at the job interview?”

Sans gave a shrug, “Felt a little weird tricking those people, but Dad bought us ice cream afterwards and explained it was to try and find a nice person who genuinely wanted to help, so I guess it's okay?”

Papyrus gave a ponderous hum and finally nodded, “I think that it went okay. My lines were a bit forced, so I gave 110% to the acting- even if my drama powers killed Mr. Robot. Maybe I'll do better next time! Though I hope next time isn't tricking people and lying.” His gazed wandered to his homework. “That's bad.” He concluded without qualm.

“Your dad do that kinda thing often?” You chewed upon your lower lip.

They both shook their heads. “Nah, not that I can think of.” Sans shrugged again, “Mostly Dad is cool, even that one time I accidentally set fire to the bathroom. And that other time I stole all his left shoes and buried them in the garden.” His laughter was thick was fond reminiscence. “He's not chill at work though, ‘cause then he's all ‘Grr, I'm a grumpy old man who does science. My employees are all fools. Grumble grumble peasants grumble!’” He mocked his father by holding his hands behind his back, and elongating his neck to peer down his nose.

You tittered behind your hand, and Papyrus gave a conspiratorial giggle.

 

You sighed happily, and relaxed a little. The boys seemed happy and relatively well adjusted, especially given their wealth and status. It would have been easy for them to become pretentious, pompous, and spoilt little demons, yet they were entirely humble.

You asked a few more questions about how their father usually acted, and were relieved to find he was exceptionally laid back around the children, encouraging their hobbies and spending time together, however, he was strict about studious habits and grades. The conversation was slowly and carefully steered towards Gaster’s outbursts. The explosive anger- despite having the best intentions- unnerved you, and his proclivity for utterly destroying people’s confidence even more so.

“Well I'm glad he's not the violent type: I'm sure my father would have threatened to put me up for adoption if I ever put peanut butter in his slippers. Oh man, I remember once I got this _great_ idea to switch around the salt and the sugar. My dad didn't say anything about it for an entire month, and I kept doing it when the sugar bowl emptied. He finally noticed when his friends came around for coffee and spat their drinks out: he thought he’d developed a weird throat infection! He'd even been to the doctor! Kids, don't laugh, he grounded me for a fortnight!” You snorted. “I don't even know _why_ I thought it was a good idea, ‘cause I sure regretted it afterwards. Surprised he didn't clout my behind.”

You left the topic hanging in the air, in a way you hoped was lighthearted enough for the children to chip in with their own stories for the sake of humour, but none came. They didn't offer any expressions of discomfort or fear to betray any hidden domestic abuse, and you were relatively satisfied with their easy laughs to have resort to outright asking. _You were very, very glad to be wrong._

“Sorry about that, I just wanted to check a couple of things, and I've totally gotten us off track.

Last question on your homework sheet, and then you guys are free for the rest of the day. ‘How does the weight of the load affect how the catapult fires?’” You asked a little distractedly, eyeing Doctor Gaster as he slipped quietly into the room. Almost subconsciously, the boys’ heads tilted as they hurriedly wrote, listening out for the soft footsteps of their father returning. The room was silent until the boys set down their pens, and Gaster scooped up their papers.

“Well done Papyrus, I see you've attempted the questions set for Sans. Would you like for me to grade them now?” He hummed, setting a steaming mug of coffee in front of you. You tutted at his absentmindedness and slid a coaster beneath the cup to avoid sticky brown rings on the table’s fancy varnish. _Oh, he'd picked the same purple cat mug for you. Mine now._ You smiled in thanks and took a sip.

Papyrus quickly shook his head, already scrabbling for the remote for the TV.

“Let them play for a while. They both worked really hard this afternoon, and I'm sure their grades will reflect it.” You flashed a proud, beaming smile to the boys. “Papyrus also deserves a little extra credit for his model. Why don't you show your dad what you made?” You coaxed.

“OKAY!” Papyrus hollered in excitement, and chased around the room to gather up his carefully crafted straw-skeleton.

“I even added phalanges!” He beamed as he passed it to his father. “The red string represents the flow of magic that keeps us together, and the elastic is stored magic for confrontations!” He jabbed a pointy finger to the blue elastic bands peaking through the gaps in the straw tubes.

Gaster pondered for a moment, and then gave Papyrus a gentle pat on the head.

“Excellent work. Not particularly to scale, but you've done a fine job with the materials at hand.”

Familiarity unexpectedly pinged in your mind, and suddenly you had a great idea

“Want to know something cool? There are real toys that use the same idea of elasticated joints all strung together”

Papyrus whipped around so quickly that you were certain his entire body would continue spinning, if not for his feet firmly planted on the carpet.

"What d’ya mean?” Sans asked, leaning forward with his elbows on the table.

“You probably didn't know, but I work with toys for a living, and I get to play with all these neat toys from all around the world.” You began, and the entire family was listening with interest. “This particular style is called ‘Ball Jointing’, and has been found in dolls from hundreds and hundreds of years ago, particularly in old bisque baby dolls. The modern version started in Japan, but there are hundreds of artists in places like Korea, America, and maybe even right in Ebbot City that make and collect these Ball Joint Dolls. Their limbs are hollow, like your straw skeleton, but made from a much thicker plastic called resin. These dolls have hooks inside their wrists, ankles and neck, and they often have sculpted joints to enhance their articulation- or poseability.” You added quickly when Sans gave you a confused frown. “Elastic is strung from these hooks, through the hollow body, and knotted in the head so it doesn't show from the outside. They're rather expensive due to the kind of resin that they're made from, and the fact that an artist had to physically sculpt them to make a mold, but so many people collect them. There's an entire market for painters, sculptors, seamstresses, wig makers: it's unreal!”

By the time you had finished your own passionate rant Papyrus’ face had twisted into a massive, openmouthed smile, thought Gaster was trying his best to look passively aloof. Sans began asking about the engineering of the joints, but trailed off when his brother let out a squeal.

“Do you have one? Can I see it?!” The younger child was bouncing from one foot to the other, flapping his hands a little.

“I thought you'd like them! Perhaps I can bring one soon, but, uhm, I'm not sure when I'll next be around.” You said hesitantly, and glanced over to Gaster.

Papyrus was speaking rapidly to his brother, who was nodding along happily, pausing every so often to type on his father’s smartphone, using the internet to bring up pictures of the dolls.

“I suppose we should have that talk whilst the boys are entertaining themselves?” Gaster murmured. His voice was quiet, but carried eerily across the room.

You gave a curt nod, and anxiety settled in the bottom of your stomach like you'd swallowed a fist full of pebbles. Your coffee was still far too hot to drink, but you grasped the mug anyway and diligently followed the Doctor up the stairs to his study.

 

~

 

The room was quite similar in layout to the master study at Bastion House, with it’s wide bay window and soft yellow lighting from the multiple antique lamps, yet you were thankful for the lack of dust or fusty mold. You ran your finger along the spine of an old weathered book upon one of the bookshelves that lined the walls. Most of the books on the shelf were stored in neatly tucked paper bags that were clear enough see the titles on the spine. The sky beyond the window was darkening, and the gentle glow of the lamps that were supposed to feel intimate and soothing left you with unsettled nerves.

“You enjoy poetry?” You asked, quietly observing the rows sat at eye level.

“Oh? Not particularly.” Gaster mused as he paced around a very familiar looking desk, “I have no love nor dislike for poets and their works. The books were gifts from patrons and colleagues, though most on that particular shelf are from a professor at the University who works in text preservation and restoration. The newer texts upon the furthest shelf are from modern publishers, though I keep them separate from the older works to avoid contamination.”

“I guess they do fit nicely with the whole medieval aesthetic of the house.” You chuckled and took a seat upon a burgundy velvet fainting couch. Gaster perched upon his desk chair and stared across at you, his expression perfectly neutral. _You wondered what was going on in his head._

“So…” You hummed, unsure of where to begin. “I have something to say, and few questions.”

Gaster nonchalantly waved a hand for you to continue.

“From what I've seen, you are objectively a good father. You clearly love your children: you want the best for their future, you treat them well, you don't compare the boys to one another in a negative fashion. Even though they have their own skill levels and abilities, you don't appear to coerce the boys into tasks not suited for them, or ones that would harm them. You encourage their interests, spend quality time together despite your long working hours, and they're shaping up to be fine young gentlemen.”

The Doctor was quiet as you spoke, clasping his hands together on top of his desk. He continued to nod along, and you were quite certain this was stroking his exceptionally large ego.

“Not to give a false impression of seeking your approval, and this is entirely for your own self assurance, but it appears as if I have proven myself?” He pressed his shoulders back and smiled.  


“Well, let's just say you're innocent until proven guilty. However, it, uhm, appears there is a missing member of the family” You tried to approach the topic carefully incase they were… no longer around, but you feared that your words came out too blunt. _Ah, fuck._

“Their mother is no longer in the picture.” Gaster stated simply, his voice thick with barely contained spite. His hands clenched tighter together and the muscles of his arms grew taut beneath the rolled sleeves of his shirt. “The children are aware of her, as  refuse to keep them in the dark, but this family is better off without the repugnant bitch.”

You gasped, clasping your hand to your mouth.

“N-no, I meant the cat! I was told you buy cat litter at Tim’s Pet Store all the time, but I haven't seen a cat yet, or even a food bowl!” You stuttered and flailed your arms in emphasis.

Gaster slumped back in his chair, shoulders loosening with relief.

“Oh thank the Stars.” He sighed, running a hand down his face. “I was worried you would complain about the children's lack of a motherly figure in their lives.”

“What? No! I don't care about that! A single father can- oh my goddess. The cat, Gaster, where is the cat!” You squawked in disbelief.

“Why didn't you just spit that out?” He groaned through the open hole of his palm, with his long finger pressing into the softer skin of his face. “The cat is very old, and currently at the veterinary office for some tests.

You let out a long, slow breath through your nose, holding your hands to your cheeks. “Holy shit.”

“I do hope your get that cursing under control soon, otherwise the boys will be picking up poor habits.” He muttered absentmindedly.

“I've heard you swear a handful of time today! You can't seriously be giving me a hypocritical lecture when your language is just as atrocious.” You scoffed, crossing your arms across your chest. Gaster was avoiding eye contact, preferring to rub small circles around his temples instead. You narrowed your eyes, knowing just how to bring him back into the conversation.

“You know, I was going to apologise.” You you began, a small smirk tugging at the corner of your lip, “But I've changed my mind now.”

Gaster’s eyes snapped to meet yours.

“Oh no, please, go ahead. I would love to hear the proud one finally grovel in repentance.” He cooed patronisingly. “And then you can leave me be; your presence is less tolerable than I initially thought. In fact, you're making me feel quite ill. Beg for forgiveness for the inconvenience you have thrust upon me, and then leave.”

You shook your head, unperturbed by his sneering. “Nope. I think I require a touch more observation.”

“Desist!” He barked.

“Hm, no.” You shrugged, and finally tapped a button on your phone. Gaster’s own phone let out a small _ping_ from the pocket of his shirt, confirming that he had received your email.

“You didn't.” He glared at you in disbelief, but dared not check his phone.

Standing tall and slipping the strap of your bag over your shoulder, you bore down at him with a triumphant smile.

“Oh, I did.” In one smooth motion you fished out a pile of signed paper work, slapped it atop his cluttered desk, and pocket your phone with your other hand.

“I'll see you bright and early on Monday morning, Boss.” You threw in a totally uncalled for but thoroughly cocky wink for good measure, and closed to door to the study as you left the room.

 

 

As you drained your coffee mug into the sink, you noticed that the swear jar was much, _much_ fuller than when you had arrived, and yet you guiltily slipped a coin through the slot cut into the lid.

You almost relented to your urge to clean the living room, but began chuckling at the mess Gaster would be forced to see to after the boys began pelting marshmallows at one another. You said goodbye to the children, having to pause whilst slipping your shoes on to peel Papyrus from one of your legs, and you set out towards the visitor’s car park of Newest Home, unsurprised that the Doctor did not reppear from the study to bid you farewell.

 

As soon as you unlocked the door to your apartment and flicked the mains power back on, you started getting ready for the party, and prepared your liver for the fact that it would be utterly obliterated by the obscene amount of alcohol that you were going to consume in a few short hours.

_You really, really, really needed a drink after a day like that, and a celebratory toast for your new job._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god, University is killing me. So many final projects, so little time. I hope you enjoyed this chapter, even if it is mostly about god-damned homework (which probably reflects my current mood heh) but it was really fun to write, and we get a little resolution. And Reader took the job. Kinda? Yay for doing things out of spite! :)
> 
> Papyrus made something like [this skeleton made from drinking straws](https://www.education.com/activity/article/make-a-straw-skeleton/), but all strung together like a puppet. Also, if you want to read about Ball Jointed Dolls (BJDS) you can check out this [Wikipedia page](https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ball-jointed_doll). They're awesome! :D
> 
>  
> 
> Feel free to ask questions in the comments, or send me a message over on [My Tumblr!](http://athenanuu.tumblr.com)


	7. * Caramel Syrup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time to party!  
> That obviously means meeting old friends, drinking too much, dancing like you have no shame, and maybe a little sugar to sweeten the end of your evening.
> 
> Let's hope nothing goes wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW! Contains detailed sexual content in the last few paragraphs on this chapter.
> 
> Hooo my god, it has been FAR too long since I updated this.  
> I'm in a much more stable place now, so I can get back to writing more regularly. Let's celebrate with some fluffy smut- and a change to the 'E rating'!
> 
> Come and say Hi over on [my Tumblr](http://athenanuu.tumblr.com)

 

Most people that say they can multitask often overestimate themselves. Sure, they can prepare a meal with a couple of pans simmering on the stove whilst waiting for the oven timer to ring, or perhaps they think walking and chewing bubblegum at the same time is a particularly honed skill. The talent involves walking the fine line of compartmentalisation, timing, a fair deal of patience, knowing your limits, and the ability to perfectly divert your attention between several tasks. The skill is a necessity of modern life and a _lot_ can go wrong when one claims they can multitask yet they cannot perform. Luckily for you, _actual_ multitasking was one of your strengths and you put it to good use. However, you often used it with a desire to get many tasks done all at once, as quickly possible, so you could spend more time relaxing. _Sheer idleness, really._

 

You sat up in bed, propped up with your cushions against the headboard, knees bent so you could easily reach down and touch your toes. You cradled your phone between your shoulder and your cheek, alternating between painting your toe and finger nails with a shining chrome polish, and arranging colour coordinating outfits across your blankets when your nails had dried.

 

“Vodka?” You asked into the phone, digging out your notepad from underneath a beaded white dress.

 

There was shuffling on the other end of the line, followed by the noise of several glass bottles clicking together. “Yeah! D’ya think a case of those litre bottles will be enough?” Dane asked above the drone of the supermarket.

 

“It should be. Unless Maria and Sung are on a break again, in which case we may need another.” You chortled, tapping your pen against your chin as you thought.

 

“As far as I'm aware they're better than they've been in a while, but I grabbed an extra bottle of Thimble Wine just in case.” Your friend laughed. His voice sounded tinny and quiet- almost robotic. You suppressed a grumble and shuffled to the end of your bed; one of the only spots within your apartment that promised a decent cell reception.

 

“That's a good idea. Gin? Maybe something fiery?”

 

Another _clink_ of glass and a muffled voice called out something over the store’s telecom. “Oohh, a sale on cheese boards!” You heard Dane gasp.

 

“Hey! Hey! No distractions! Did you get any gin?”

 

“What? Oh, of course. That's practically all Kev drinks anymore.”

 

“I swear, one day we'll be staging an intervention for that guy. On second thoughts, maybe we shouldn't be enabling it...” You fanned your free hand across your toes to help your nails dry quicker, and glanced down at your list. “What about mixers and stuff for non-drinkers?”

 

“Cola, lemonade, sodas, rootbeer, and orange juice.”

 

“Great.” You crossed them all from your checklist. “Ice?”

 

“Plenty in my freezer already, but I've got a few more bags in my cart.”

 

“Do you want me to bring my glasses and mugs down so there will be enough for everyone?” You pulled your favourite necklace from your neatly arranged jewellery box and compared it against a short sequined dress. _Too flashy. You'd end up looking like a disco ball if you didn't tone down on the sparkles._

 

“Nah, don't bother lugging them all the way down: the lift is still out of order so it'll be more effort than it's worth. Besides, I've grabbed some packs of disposable cups, which’ll save me _so_ much time cleaning up.” He said, and you could hear the pride and relief in his voice.

 

“Wow check you out, finally being all organised and shit.” You couldn't help but cackle into the receiver.

 

“Ouch. I'm wounded. I'm just taking a leaf out of your book! I even remembered limes and rock salt! AND an entire cooler for bottles of water.” He defended, but suddenly grew quiet. You could barely hear that he had started up another conversation over the background noise of the store.

 

As you waited patiently you sorted through a pile of clean underwear that had yet to be put away and pulled out a lacy pair. Clicking your pen, you quickly jotted down in your notebook: _‘Note to self: if not too drunk/hungover, put away laundry. Drunk self, DO NOT tip it onto the floor when you inevitably collapse into bed.’_

You knew you'd end up forgetting anyway, especially if you were... preoccupied.

 

“Hey, sorry about that.” Dane began, interrupting you from your rummaging, “‘Just spotted Jason: he's out buying carrots for Lucy.”

 

“Oh? How is she?”

 

“ _Suuuper_ pregnant, apparently. For weeks she's been craving nothing but carrots dipped in gravy, but every single time, she start crying because she thinks the baby will be born with orange skin.”

 

You clutched your towel closer across your chest as you laughed. “Oh my stars, that is the best thing I've heard all week. I am _not_ letting her live this down.”

 

“Aren't you the MageMother? I thought you were supposed to be supportive?” Dane’s voice was dripping with derision.

 

“Psshh, you know that's just a title nowadays. Not to mention, I'm totally allowed to tease when I'm given info like _that_!”

 

“Don't blame me when she tears your limbs off in a fit of pregnancy-hormone fury.” He snorted at your absolute lack of shame. “Right. I'm gunna grab some more snacks and head to the check out, okay?”

 

“Sure thing, but stay away from those cheese boards! I absolutely refuse to clean up camembert-tequila vomit.”

 

Dane scoffed, and in the background you could hear the _beep, beep, beep_ of the tills growing closer, “I can't make any promises. Thanks again for your help, you are an absolute angel!”

 

“See you in an hour!” You tried to say more goodbyes in between your giggling but finally hung up, setting your phone to charge on your bedside table. As soon as you plugged the cable into the socket, the lights above your head dimmed to a slight glow. Your squinted angrily up at the ornate lampshade. You hadn't had chance to dry your hair yet, and you couldn't do it quickly without power. As if sensing your irritation, the lights sparked back to life- quite literally- as you heard one bulb in the kitchen shatter into a thousand tiny pieces.

 

“I can't deal with this shit today.” You groaned aloud, raking a hand through your still wet hair. You peeled your towel from your mostly dry body and patted the plush material against your head.

 

You had an entire hour to decide what to wear, do your hair and makeup, and clean up the exploded light bulb mess. That still left you with plenty of time to get started on your pre-party drinking and relax. You stood to stretch out your stiff legs and meandered back into the bathroom.

 

Precisely 55 minutes later you were fluffing your hair out, pausing briefly to adjust your stockings and glance in a tall mirror hanging in the main hallway. It hadn't taken long for you to settle on a long sleeved Little Black Dress, with a plunging neckline and flattering silver peplum to accentuate your waist. You fingered the long necklace that dipped into your cleavage and wondered what you had forgotten. Dane’s apartment was the one directly below your penthouse suite, so it wasn't as if you had to far to go incase it was anything important, but even the thought of having to walk up and down the stairs multiple times was exhausting.

 

“Ah!” You exclaimed, clicking your fingers in revelation. “The presents!” You turned on your heel and skipped to the kitchen counter.

You'd only had a single drink- _a very refreshing double gin and tonic_ \- but you already feeling giddy with excitement. You and Dane had been planning the party for weeks, and finally all the effort was coming to fruition. With renewed vigour you knocked back a single shot of almond liqueur and closed your eyes in pleasure as the smooth, sweet taste ran across your tongue. It was your favourite alcoholic beverage, and after all of your hard work you felt the drink was well deserved. Who knows, you might even celebrate further by bringing someone home at the end of the night! _Note to self: put laundry away before letting them into the bedroom._

 

As you hefted the giant gift basket onto your shoulder the floorboards began vibrating beneath your feet, which brought on a surge of adrenaline that nearly made you squeal aloud. Though you couldn't quite make out the song, the music picked up and the bass began thumping at the walls. You could already hear the muffled cry of several guests in the hallway as groups slowly arrived.

The basket already made your shoulder ache but in reality you didn't have far to go. As you stepped closer to your front door the music grew louder and louder, and you could barely concentrate on thinking. It was times like these that made you truly enjoy your living arrangement: the relatively small office block had been converted into five large apartments with one per floor, but besides you and Dane, the others were empty. You knew why the previous tenants had left, but you decided not to mourn the loss, and made use of the freedom- often in the form of loud parties that ran on into the early hours of the morning.

 

Amongst the damped noise of the stereo system, you heard the distinct call of your name from someone on the stair well. Not wanting to arrive last, you tugged your dress down, held the cellophane wrapped package close to your body and locked the door behind you.

 

~

 

The music was truly pumping through your body. The drums pulsed through your chest, echoing against your heart, which seemingly adjusted its own beat to match the tempo of the song. You downed the last of your drink and held your arms up, giving a mighty ‘WOO!’ as the crowd danced all around you. The whiskey burnt as it went down, clinging to your throat and setting your insides alight. The aftertaste was strong and almost smoky, but quickly settled to a smoulder- A fine sample from the Cinder clan’s brewery. The crowd sang and yelled and jumped in the darkness, only lit by the strobing colours that shone down from the ceilings. You could make out familiar faces, strangers made up of humans and monsters alike. Beings so tall that they had to stoop to avoid the ceiling, one smaller monster running wildly between people's legs to catch a glimpse up any skirt it could, the occasional scaly, furry or soft skinned arm catching against yours, the gentle rustling of clothes and indistinct voices lost entirely within the closeness of the crowd. It was as if every single being had become one of hollering and rhythm and joy.

 

You bumped shoulders with friends and strangers as you danced, swinging your hips and trying to find the cutest to get closer to. _There were definitely a few with potential._ You smirked, winking at the flustered redhead that met your eye.

You never got the chance to grind up against them as something caught your ear- again, someone had been shouting your name over the noise. The song finished, and though the next one quickly followed, the crowd thinned enough for you to slip away to the kitchen.

 

Several people were hanging out on bar stools around the kitchen island, with a couple sitting on the sturdy black worktops, grateful that they could talk over the quietened music without shouting, not to mention they were right next to the drinks and snacks. You chewed a handful of mini pretzels as you grabbed a fresh plastic cup, helping yourself to a liberal shot of a mysteriously bright green drink.

 

“There you are! I've been looking everywhere.” Someone said from directly behind you. The low heels of your shoes clicked and ground harshly against the tiled floor as you span around to face them.

 

“Dane! Happy birthday!” You beamed, quickly wrapping your arms around his broad torso and burying your face in his chest. The buttons of his shirt pressed into your cheek as he pulled you in tight.

 

“Why thank you, your majesty. We are so glad that you could finally graced us with your presence!” He chuckled and hugged you tighter as you tried to defiantly wriggle away.

 

“Oh you know how it is,” You finally pulled free and flapped a hand dismissively, “One minute I'm dropping your gifts off by the cloak room, the next I'm dragged away to dance by that _gorgeous_ blonde from your shop.”

 

He barked out a laugh and shook his head.

“Nope. Your experiences are not universal, but I certainly wish it was. She has a stunning pair of-”

 

The aforementioned blonde stepped into the kitchen and leaned against the island’s countertop. Her cheeks were flushed pink as she caught her breath, but she still wriggled her shoulders in time to the thumping beat. She glanced over at you, and her almond painted lips parted into a smile that looked almost as sweet as your favourite liqueur. You gave a small wave, opening your mouth to say something but Dane beat you to it.

 

“- gifts you've got for me! Let's go open them!” He quickly finished, grabbing your wrist and dragging you out of the room.

 

He pulled you along, skirting around groups of swaying bodies, avoiding tails and bare feets, trying not to get sucked back into the hypnotic sway of dancing. There had to be at least 80 people packed into the large apartment, all spread out in cliques and friend groups. You navigated past them all until you ground to a halt in the lobby. Your chest was heaving and you had to lean against the front door, wheezing in each breath.

 

“What the hell, Dane? That was a prime opportunity to make a move!” You scolded, but softened your expression as you saw the embarrassment etched on his face.

 

“I'm technically her boss. I can't be heard saying stuff like that!” He gasped.

 

“Tsh, you're such a gentleman! Fine. I'll make a move later and tell you all about it.” You winked and pulled your dress down to reveal more cleavage and ensured your lower half was decently covered. You stood up fully and stepped over to the present filled table. You were not surprised at the amount of gifts, so many that the thin table was almost buckling under the strain. Dane- often dubbed Great Dane for his large stature and friendly nature- was a very popular guy for a reason: he was downright awesome. He was genuinely kind and compassionate, with a wicked sense of humor, and enough care in his giant heart that everyone in his immediate vicinity felt soothed by his presence. Even when you had first met in City Central Secondary School he was fiercely loyal to the small circle of friends you had joined. People seemed to flock near him, and though only some had stuck around as time passed, it certainly didn't help that he was very handsome. A strong jaw, sharp green eyes that sparkled when he smiled, perfect white teeth, and a muscular physique. It was one of the first things you had noticed about him in High School, back when you were a shy quivering ball of hormones and potential, but you were almost relieved that your relationship was one that never dipped into the romantic sort, even as you both grew older. You were glad for such a bond that had strengthened over the years, and right now you were practically vibrating with excitement as he peeled away the plastic that you'd carefully wrapped around his gifts.

 

“A collar? Is this your way of asking us to take things to the next level?” He held up the shiny ring of fabric, and the bell tinkled as he waved it back and forth.

 

“You didn't take the hint when I bought that strap on, so I thought I'd be a bit more subtle this time!” You joked and elbowed him the ribs. Your cheeks were hurting with the grin you wore as he gasped and “Ooh”d at each new item he pulled from the basket.

 

“This is incredible!” He shouted over the party that you'd nearly forgotten about, and he pulled you into a hug so tight that the air was forced from your lungs. “You’ve thought of everything! Treats, dental chews, flea treatment, fancy gourmet food. Eggsen is going to be so spoilt!”

 

You quirked a brow and stared up at Dane.

“You finally decided on a name! But… Eggsen? Really?”

 

“Yes.” He nodded seriously as he stuffed the presents back into the basket. “It's short for ‘Mr. Eggsen Bacon Sandwich’.”

 

You snorted as it finally clicked, “Oh my god. Eggs and bacon sandwich. _What_ is it with food related cat names? Where is the little guy anyway?”

 

“He's shut in the master bedroom’s bathroom with his food and litter. It's the furthest room away from the noise, but has enough space for him to move around.” Dane nodded seriously.

 

You patted his shoulder and smiled sincerely, “You're such a good cat-parent already.”

 

You took the lull in the music to drag him back to the kitchen. “Come along Daddy, Momma needs some shots!”

 

He groaned, but followed regardless.

 

~

 

Your small friend group cringed as Simon stepped up onto the karaoke stage, gripping the microphone in his sticky fingers. He missed the next bar of music as he took a liberal drink from his glass, and hurriedly tried to pick up where he left off.

 

“Oh. Wow.” Sung shook his head and winced into his beer. “I have not missed this.”

 

“At least you don't have to worry about the neighbours complaining!” Said a tall guy with a familiar face, who's name you couldn't quite place. He'd started to follow you around halfway through the night, though he hadn't said much directly to you.

 

“That's because this place is a shit hole. Is it really any wonder that we don't have neighbours?” You scoffed, leaning back against the wall. The buzz was definitely hitting you now, coursing through your veins like wildfire. You felt a little euphoric in that moment, despite the caterwauling of the karaoke. You felt like you could do anything!

 

“At least the rent is cheap?” Dane offered, uncapping another bottle of rootbeer.

 

“That's what you get for renting without a tenancy agreement.” Sung chirped, nodding knowingly. His deep black hair shone almost blue in the colourful flashing lights that lined the walls. You briefly wondered if he'd dyed his hair, or whether the alcohol was messing with your vision. _Probably the latter._

 

“Ughhh!” You dropped your head heavily against the wall like a sulking child. “This conversation is getting _far_ too adult for my liking, and not in the good way. Someone pass the tequila!” you chuckled.

 

“To the balcony!” Cried Maria, her plump cheeks dimpling as she grinned. She pointed a clawed hand in the opposite direction of the dancing, to a pair of stained glass doors.

 

The cool night air whipped your hair around, and you almost regretted wearing such a flimsy outfit- even one that made your butt look _really_ good- but as you rounded the sharp corner of Dane’s balcony a gentle warmth enveloped your shoulders. You startled, and a broad hand pressed gently  against your lower back to steer you closer to the woven wicker chairs and table.

 

You tugged the warm suit jacket around your frame and smiled sheepishly up at the familiar faced guy.

 

“Thank you very much, uh..” You still couldn't quite remember his name.

 

He took a seat next to yours, allowing you to sit closest to the large space heater that was tucked into the corner of the sheltered wall.

 

“Cassian! Cassian Smith. We worked together at Singer’s Lab a couple of years back, and coincidentally Dane and I are members at the same gym.” He gave you a crooked smile.

 

Dane clapped Cassian on the shoulder, “Every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday morning without fail!”

 

You slapped your hand on the table, “Of course! Usually I'm so good at-”

 

The sudden vibrations caused a bottle to tip over and roll across the glass top of the wicker table.

 

“It's a good job that was empty!” Dane snickered, already flipping the cap off another beer.

 

“Sorry, sorry. I'm all over the place tonight.” You grovelled.

 

Sung perked up and gasped in excitement, “Ooh! Who wants to play ‘spin the bottle’?”

 

“What are we, 15?” Maria shook her head and revealed her pointed fangs in a wide smile, but she began clearing empty cups and bottles to free up space on the table.

 

“Yeah, you're supposed to be 25, act your age!” You needled, balancing the opaque green bottle on its side in the centre of the circle.

 

“Hey! You're the same age as him, give or take a few years.”

 

You gasped in mock offense, glaring daggers at Dane and clutching your hand to your chest, “You don't know how old I am, do you?”

 

“I-I,” He sputter indignantly, “I just think the unknown adds to your air of mystique and charm.”

 

“We were at _school_ together!”

 

Cassian began laughing behind his hand as you pointed a finger across the table.

“You can't smooth talk you way outta that one, buddy! If this lands on you, you're getting me another drink!” You snapped, but your eyes were crinkling with mirth.

 

“Hey, you can't chose a dare when you haven't even span.” He countered, and the rest of the table agreed. You cowed, waving your hand at the bottle for someone to take the first turn.

 

Maria flicked her wrist, and the bottle span. Small flecks of white froth flew from the glass neck and finally it rolled to a stop. It landed on you.

 

“Truth or Dare?” Her solid yellow eyes glittered in the light as she smirked.

 

“Truth!” You folded your arms across your chest.

 

“What was your most embarrassing situation at work?”

 

“Oh no. Okay, in retrospect it isn't that bad, but it's just so stupid!” You squeezed your eyes shut as you felt your cheeks heat at the thought. “One time I genuinely forgot where I was working. It was a new job, I was really sick and for some reason these meds put me into this weird fugue like state.  So come the first shift, I woke up but I didn't have a business card, I couldn't find the emails, I had no idea what the company was called or what I was supposed to be doing. I just stayed in bed for three days until I got a call from their HR department, and when it finally clicked what the hell this job was, I could barely say I was so sick that I hadn't even been able to call in to let them know. Then I vaguely remember ranting about Disneyland, or something? Thst poor HR lady... Oh man, I don't know how I managed to keep that job for 6 months.”

 

Dane cackled, “I remember that! That was the week you started posting old takeout menus under the door, with random recommendations written on with markers: ‘I think you'd like the chicken pizza’ or ‘Try the lasagna’. That was such a head fuck.”

 

“I was sick!” You defended with a pout. Begrudgingly you took your turn, and span the bottle. It stopped with the neck pointing to Cassian. You grinned evilly. “Truth or dare?”

 

“Uh, truth?” He shrugged nonchalantly.

 

You paused for a moment, deliberating.

“Another work related question! Have you ever done anything sneaky to get a raise?”

 

He pointed accusatively, “You know about this one, you little sneak! Oh no, I think I need a smoke to get through this one, if you guys don't mind?” He glanced around the table.

 

You shook your head. Even though your senses were slightly dulled from the alcohol in your system, you could make out the faint but clinging smell of cigarette smoke on the lapels of his suit jacket.

 

He flicked at the flint of his lighter and the air around you began to fill with the astringent smoke, but the cool evening breeze quickly pulled it away. He heavily exhaled and thick gray smoke poured from his parted lips.

 

“I once walked in on the CEO of Singer Inc. banging the receptionist in a supply cupboard.” He squeezes his eyes shut and shivers. “I was so… just- I don't even know why I did it, but I reached around them to grab a box of staples, wished them luck, and closed the door as I left.”

 

A cold silence washes over the table.

 

“Isn't he, like, 90 or something?” You ask, eyes wide open with shock. Sing fist bumps Dane, and Cassian cannot suppress the next shudder that wracked his spine.

 

“Was the receptionist hot?” Maria smirked, trying to rub salt into the obviously still raw wound.

 

“Yeah. But his face was just as wrinkly as his.. Ugh lord I wanted to bleach my eyes. I still do! It was totally accidental, I didn't even ask for it, but weirdly enough I got a raise the very next day.”

 

“Oh my gods. You were _bribed_!” You gasp, scandalised, and the rest of the group bursts into laughter.

 

You still had difficulty catching your breath several minutes later, choking on soundless giggles, sending your shoulders shaking. The game had descended into deeper and darker questions, and it was your turn to spin once more.

 

“Dane!” You wheeze, “Truth or Dare.”

 

“Fine! Dare.” He relented. “Nope, let me guess: what would you like to drink?”

 

“Hmm,” You tapped at your chin as if you had to ponder deeply, musing aloud, “I did have my eye on a cute blonde thing earlier..”

 

“Well that certainly narrows it down.” Dane snarked.

 

“You know who I mean. Go get her number for me.” You waved him in the direction of the balcony door and the thumping bass. His sigh was exaggerated, and he sulkily dragged his chair as he stood.

 

“You owe me!” He winced.

 

The music burst to life as he opened the door, pouring out much louder than the muffled din through concrete walls. A short, gelatinous Monster oozed between the gap in the door as it was closing. They waved a tiny hand in your direction, but they rolled over to a group sitting around another table.

You could just make out someone shouting in time to the music, squawking over the karaoke. It sounded awful.

 

“I didn't realise you guys had an open relationship.” Cassian quipped, his expression amused when your head snapped up.

 

You quirked a brow. “Oh, yeah. He's pretty cool about it. We see different people all the time. In fact, the relationship is so open that we're not even together.”

 

The balcony doors opened. Over the pumping music somebody let out a pained gasp. You turned to see Dane clutching his chest, his face struggling to maintain his shocked facade. Occasionally his grimace would tick up at the corners as he fought back the smirk.

 

“Well I wish you'd told me about that sooner. That would've saved me so much money on the honeymoon.” He tried to hide a snicker beneath a cough.

 

You rolled your eyes. He enjoyed playing along with drama far too much.

 

Cass grumbled, “Er, sorry. I- I thought-”

 

“Don't worry, you're not the first person to think it.” You shrugged, trying very hard to ignore Maria and Sung noisily making out just behind you.

 

“Did you get it?” You eagerly grinned as Dane took his seat. He fished around in his pocket for a moment, before producing a torn scrap of paper.

 

“Oohhh, cute.” You whispered in awe at the neat line of numbers and the small lipstick smudged kiss in the corner.

 

You quickly pulled your cell from a pocket stealthily hidden beneath your dress’ peplum and saved the contact number.

 

**You** \- 12:44AM

_Fancy a drink?_

_Don't know about you, but I'm feeling pretty thirsty ;)_

 

Giddily, you hit the send button and stuffed the paper down your bra so the wind couldn't blow it away. An amused smirk crossed your face as you glanced back down at your text, before tucking your phone back into your pocket. _Going straight for the cheesy pickup lines. Smooth!_

 

You glanced up to find a tray of shots had appeared upon the table. Tiny clear glasses filled with reds and blues and greens, some glittering with flecks of gold, others bubbling with magic that felt like static against your lips. Conversations blurred. a tall drink that tasted like aniseed and mellowed to a slight burn against your tongue. One left a lingering flavour of mint and strawberry and the magic tickled against your insides. Another shot sparked and popped with a bright luminescence, smearing your lips and tongue with a glowing blue.

 

**Unknown** \- 2:27AM

_Bring me something sweet and I'll make it worth your while._

 

Lust pooled within your gut, spurring you to your feet. The restless urge to move and sing and jump made your grin grow wider.

You were on the dancefloor, pushing a pink shot into her hand, holding up a matching glass of your own. It burned but tasted so sweet. Hand in hand, your hips occasionally bumped as you danced together amongst the mass of swaying and jumping bodies.

You shouted out, barely hearing what she called back. Snatches of conversations that could only be spoken in the lull between each song. The music was loud, loud, loud but her voice was so soft against the shell of your ear.

 

“Candy.” She purred. Her lips traced down your neck and you found yourself clinging to her shoulders as your knees nearly gave way. She whispered exactly what she wanted to do to you, her fingers discretely brushing against your chest. Your groan was lost to the thumping bass and screaming crowd- hand in hand, her long blue nails dug into the soft skin of your fingers as you coaxed her towards the door.

 

The air of the hallway was so much cooler than the dense humidity that gathered between the dancers. Your ears rang out a high pitched squeal, and you both giggled with breathless excitement.

 

Navigating not one, but two flights of stairs was a challenge as you both tottered about in high heels. You gripped onto one another, slowly taking each step at a time and cackling all the while. Her laughter made your heart glitter. Her wit as sudden and sharp as a pen knife. The endearing flash of her smile and the crinkling of her eyes when your jokes made her wheeze with laughter. Her perfume tasted bitter upon her neck, but you didn't care. She was so sweet, and you couldn't help but lap your tongue over her collarbone once more.

 

Something distracted you for a moment: an insistent vibrating against your thigh. You paused in front of your door, digging around in your pocket. Your phone was suddenly far too bright, for your eyes had yet to adjust from the dim of the party. The jumble of letters and numbers was hard to make out with your alcohol soaked brain. It took a few seconds for you to navigate through each of the texts that were quickly sent one after the other:

 

**Dane** \- 3:10am 

_Be safe._

 

**Dane** \- 3:10am 

_Use protection._

 

**Dane** \- 3:10am  

_Eat your greens._

 

**Dane** \- 3:11am

_Stay in school._

 

**Dane** \- 3:11am  

_Don't do drugs._

 

**Dane** \- 3:11am 

_Have fun._

 

You snorted and slurred, “What a dork.”

 

Candy gently ran her fingers through your hair and her nails caught against your scalp.

You swayed as you bit back a moan. She did it again, a littler harder, smirking as your knees knocked together.

 

“It's so convenient that you live just up the stairs.” Her soft cheeks flushed as she spoke.

 

Unable to stop the rising heat and building tension between yourselves, you hurriedly opened the door. You both staggered in, abandoning purses and heels and jackets and dresses as you moved further and further into the apartment.

 

Your tongue flicked over her cupid's bow, s _ickly sweet sugar, the sting of alcohol, a hint of cinnamon..._ gently coaxing her backwards until her knees hit the edge of your bed. She sat dutifully, panting and blinking up at you with brilliantly sparkling eyes.

 

“You okay?” You asked, leaning down to brush your fingertips down her bare arms.

 

She nodded and grabbed handfuls of sheets when your fingers teased down her waist.

 

“How drunk are you?”

 

“Quite.” She gave you a lopsided smile. “You?”

 

“Very.” You nodded matter-of-factly.

 

“Maybe…” She wobbled a little, her hands pulling you down to her level.

 

“Lets sleep it off first.” You finished off her thoughts, and a relieved smile graced her face.

 

Two glasses of water, some baby wipes to scrub away the remnants of your makeup, and a handful of stolen kisses later, you were both wrapped up in your soft blankets.

 

The walls span with each small movement, but the uncomfortable nausea was worth it to wriggle closer and snuggle into her hair. Her eyes fluttered heavily, and silky legs tangled against yours. You didn't mind when she fell to sleep and started drooling against your chest, for you were sure you'd end up snoring like a bear as you eventually gave in to your exhaustion.

 

_Whatever. That's a problem for the morning._

 

_~_

 

A soft hand between your thighs. Sharp nails gently running higher and higher over the soft skin, teasingly close to the hemline of your lacy underwear. A blissful sigh breathed from her parted lips. Your tongue captured her nipple and she keened, her back arching to get as close as possible to your touch.

 

The soft morning sunlight shone in through your parted curtains to bathe you both in a subtle warmth, but your core was already alight with a fiery lust that left you far too hot.

 

Your teeth plucked at her hardening nipple and Candy sucked in a quick breath. You kissed away the sting, planting gentle pecks around her chest, down to her ribs, then past the soft flesh of her stomach. Lower and lower, praising her body with your lips against her skin, licking up beads of sweat as you shuffled further down the bed. Her knees automatically bent as you placed yourself between her legs and hooked a foot over your shoulder.

 

“Oh gods.” She whined as your hot breath bloomed against her clothed sex. She arched her back further from mattress, trying to press herself harder against your painfully gentle kisses.

 

The air under the blanket was growing warmer, and you could smell her evident arousal. Your fingertips pulled against the hem of her thong, and you immediately dove in, lapping the flat of your tongue up her lips. Her whimpering and cursing and panting urged you onwards, dipping your fingers into her. She was so wet, her honey coating your fingers and tongue as you stroked harder. You wanted- no, you needed- to coax those sweet sounds and even sweeter tastes from her.

Your nose pressed into the short curls of her mons, the tip of your tongue circling around the bundle of nerves that made her moan. You added another finger, thrusting in time to each flick of your tongue against her clit, occasionally suckling softly on her honey coated lips. Her hand found your head and pulled your hair tight as she spasmed and twitched. Her hips bucked as she sought more and more pressure from your insistent tongue.

 

Candy’s muscles clenched and fluttered around your fingers as you stroked at her sweet spot. You pressed your tongue harder upon her clit, rubbing it in circles and lapping faster and faster. She moaned your name and you just wished you could have seen her eyes roll back into her head as she froze up. Her thick thighs clamped against your ears, but you could still hear her screaming out her moans. With renewed vigour you licked faster, milking her orgasm for all it was worth and helping her ride it out for as long as possible.

 

Tangy slick clung to your lips like syrup. You ran your tongue across your teeth, sighing happily and flopping back onto your pillow.

Candy raised her arms above her head to splay out on the pillow, breathing heavily and smiling through a haze of orgasmic bliss.

 

“Holy shit.” She murmured into your kisses, pausing only to wipe the dampness from your brow.

 

“You hungry?” You asked, beaming with pride at her disheveled state. “Cause I can brew some coffee and make some pancakes?”

 

“Hmm, I think I'm hungry for something else.” Her words were thick with want as her hands found your hips. Her teeth tugged upon your ear lobe, and just as you began slipping your panties down your legs- your phone began vibrating.

 

Candy glanced over to your nightstand, but you were too distracted with her strong fingers working their way between your legs. Instinctively your eyes fluttered closed and you pinched your bare nipples between your fingertips.

 

“Aren't you going to get that? I'd answer it for you-” she ducked her head to nip at the soft flesh of your inner thigh, smirking mischievously into the skin, “but my mouth is going to be far too preoccupied.”

 

Her long blonde hair fanned across the sheets, ticking against your legs. You resisted the urge to tug her straight towards the source of your arousal. _Good things to those who wait._ The vibrating of your phone against the nightstand stopped, but you barely noticed, for your mind was growing foggy. You ached and twitched as Candy teased you mindlessly, never directly touching you in places that would send you straight over the edge. Lost in the feeling of her tongue upon you, you panted, biting at your lip and groping at your chest.

 

**_BZZ! BZZ! BZZZZZ! BZZ! BZZ! BZZZZZZ!_ **

 

You jolted, snapping your head to the side to glare at the interruption. Candy never ceased in her ministrations, only glancing up between your legs. Giving an irritated huff at the caller ID, you snatched up your phone

 

"I have to take this: it's my boss." You explained with a frown, but as you made to move from the bed her soft hands held you hips firmly to the mattress. You relented and gave her a stern look.

 

"Okay, but no distractions. I don't want to get fired before my first real day at work." You wagged a finger and she nodded, holding her hands up in surrender.

"Quiet as a mouse!" She whispered, then mimed zipping her lips shut.

Her slight smirk told you she was far from saintly but your phone continued to ring, so you answered and pressed it to your ear.

 

“Hello?” You asked, trying and failing to smother the ire in your voice.

 

“Oh thank goodness, you finally picked up.” Gaster droned sardonically. Clearly he wasn't concerned as to why you didn't initially answer- not that you'd actually tell him. You wanted nothing more than to throw your cellphone at the wall, but settled for heavily rolling your eyes despite the slight embarrassed blush that spread across the bridge of your nose.

 

“What is it?”

 

“Where are you?” He asked impatiently. You could hear a thudding, rhythmic noise in the background of the call. _Is he tapping his fingers? Smug asshole._

 

You couldn't help but chuckle, “Home. Busy. It's Sunday."

 

Gaster sighed heavily, but didn't say anything. _Oh god, what did he want?_

 

"Gaster, now isn't really a good time for me to, uhm, chat. And, again, it’s Sunday.”

 

“I am very much aware of the day of the week, but when you said you'd be here ‘bright and early Monday morning’ I was rather hoping you'd be here bright and early _Sunday_ morning.” He asked aa earnestly as he could.

 

“Why would on earth would I _aah~_!” You couldn't help the loud and lewd moan that tumbled out passed your lips. Candy had taken the opportunity to suckle lightly upon the hood of your clit. She repeated the action and it took everything in your power not to make that noise again.

 

You slapped your hands over your eyes as the rhythmical tapping on the other end of the line stopped abruptly. Even his breathing seemed to stop. You could hear the leather of his ridiculously expensive desk chair squeak.

 

“Fuck-” You began to speak, hoping to pass it off as if you'd stubbed your toe or some other half convincing lie, but all that greeted you was silence.

And then the dial tone.

 

Gaster had hung up.

 

Face burning in horror, you dropped your phone over the edge of the mattress and glared down at Candy. She looked so very pleased with herself, smirking like a cat who'd knocked a very expensive vase over the lip of a table.

 

She snickered as you fidgeted away from her grasp.

 

“You little devil.” You growled.

"What?! I didn't say a word!" Her happy squeals echoed from the walls of the bedroom as you pounced at her.

 

You could almost guarantee that Gaster wouldn't call back straight away, but some small part of you was almost disappointed that he didn't interrupt again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is like, the second smut that I've ever written, and my first f/f piece! I hope you guys liked it ;3; 
> 
> I wonder how Gaster feels about this accidental development?  
> Hehehe, guess we'll find out next time!
> 
> Come and say Hi over on [my Tumblr](http://athenanuu.tumblr.com)


	8. The Relativity of Bad Luck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AKA "The Aftermath."
> 
> In which you have a very bad morning.  
> Or... maybe not?

 

Gaster was surprised by your laughter. It was light and honest in a way that he had not heard from you before, and it was so genuine that he was sure it was not directed at him.

_What were you laughing at?_

_The television? Or perhaps you were not alone?_

 

However, he had picked up on the unmistakable petulance in your choice of words and the undercurrent of irritation in your tone: he was positive _that_ was meant for him. _How rude._

 

“Home. Busy. It's Sunday.” You gruffed over the phone, your voice no longer bright and bubbling with laughter.  
  
Clearly he was interrupting something. Probably nothing of actual importance: being lazy, lounging around, watching shitty daytime television if he were to hazard a guess. The signal on your end was poor- your slight breathing sounded washed out and metallic. Gaster tutted. _You probably had an ancient, outdated phone. He'd have to fix that if you were going to be around for any period of time: the poor quality would be a pain to listen to through ever single phone call, and it would inevitably drive him mad._

 

He narrowed his eyes and set his pen down. You clearly weren't doing anything useful, so obviously your time would be better spent elsewhere, being productive.

Though as much as he hated to admit it- and he would never admit either things out loud- he was feeling stressed, and required your help.

 

Papyrus and Sans began squawking again downstairs, squabbling over something that he tried to ignore to the best of his abilities. He tapped his slender fingers upon his desk and held his phone tighter in his grasp. The light, rhythmic tapping gave him something to focus upon as you took several moments to reply.

 

“Gaster, now isn't really a good time for me to, uhm, chat. And, again, it’s Sunday.”

 

He didn't really care and was about to voice as much, but beyond the walls of his study Gaster heard a door slam, followed by the rustling of plastic and secretive whispers. O _h. Oh no._ The boys had gotten into the other stash of sugary snacks in one of the kitchen cupboards, and in the short period in which he could go down there and put an end to their mischief, they'd probably have eaten the entire contents of the box. They thought they were getting away with it, and that their father didn't know. But he knew, oh he knew- it was a curse that he knew exactly how their minds worked.

Clearly Papyrus had grown tall enough to just about reach when he stood on the kitchen counter top, and to offer a helping hand Sans had been practising his levitation magic on soulless objects. Regardless, Gaster would have to find a new hiding place for the rest of the snacks, and soon.

 

In his paternal duties he tried to exercise patience and consistency to ensure the boys developed a strong moral mindset, and he was rewarded with watching his sons grow into fine young Monsters.

However, they were still merely children, and as such weak to temptation and mischief. Despite appearing as intelligent and well behaved most often, at that moment they were being a pain in his side, and it seemed that you were too.

He knew that you'd be a challenge as soon as he'd marked your shortlist exams at Bastion House, not to mention the battle that was your face-to-face interview.

 _Why couldn't you just smile and agree; be a pretty little compliant doll, come over to settle the children down. Why couldn't you just stop being so stubborn and do exactly what he needed of you._ He paused for a moment, and supposed that those were the qualities that he found appealing in you; bullheaded perseverance and a chronic independence. They were qualities of an employee that could make great progress in their careers, especially if he was here to guide and perfect them.

 

He frowned down at a stack of funding applications and paperwork that needed to be filled and posted by the end of the day, and his assistant was off galavanting around town doing gods know what- anything but his job, of course.

No one was around to mind the children whilst Gaster was preoccupied and he had no other option but to ask you to come in earlier than expected. He didn't like the idea of asking a favour of you, but it seemed a better alternative than cleaning up rainbow coloured vomit whenever the boys inevitably bit off more than they could chew- literally and metaphorically.

 

You sighed into the receiver. He grumbled, “I am very much aware of the day of the week, but when you said you'd be here ‘bright and early Monday morning’ I was rather hoping you'd be here bright and early Sunday morning.”

 

You gasped into the receiver, sounding almost offended when you began to snap, “Why would on earth would I aaah~ !”

  
You cut yourself off mid-sentence with a moan that made Gaster freeze.

 

It was such a lewd noise: loud enough to vibrate the speaker against his ear, filled with genuine, toe curling pleasure, and a heat that seemed to cut straight through his bones.

 

He couldn't move. Something clattered to the floor, but he couldn't bring himself to look. The very air in his lungs stilled as a warmth settled within his stomach. All he could do was grip onto the arm of his desk chair and _squeeze_ . The worn leather and expertly crafted wood groaned under the pressure and his claws split into the fabric. He so desperately hoped _that noise_ was not what he thought it was, but _of course_ it was, because what else could cause such a visceral reaction?

 

All he could do was sit, wide eyed and startled like an animal caught in the headlights, and _squeeeeze_ the chair’s arm even tighter.

  
“Fuck-” You began, embarrassed and humiliated, but arousal and pleasure were so thick in your voice that you couldn't even smother them for that one simple word.

 

He knew what you were going to say: you'd try to brush it off, cover it up, spout out a lie, anything to pretend that it never happened. But if you spoke even one more word there was a very real chance that you'd still sound like _that_ \- all breathy and alluring- and he wouldn't know what to do. He'd start thinking about _what on earth_ could cause such a delicious noise to fall from such a vicious mouth, and he wouldn't be able to stop.

 

So, in that moment, he did the only thing that he could think of to rectify the situation:

 

He hung up.

  


“Oh fuck.”

 

~~

 

“Please!” You begged over the phone. “I am _so_ hungover. I need coffee in me right now, otherwise I will literally die!”

 

Dane laughed so loud that you could hear it through your floorboards.

 

“Nooo, stop being so mean. My coffee machine exploded, I can't find my french press, let alone my coffee grounds! I need caffeine.” You whined as you sluggishly pulled a blister-pack of pain relievers from your kitchen cupboard, and slammed the door shut for emphasis. _That was a mistake._ You winced and regretfully clutched at your poor aching head.

 

“Ow. Ow. Ow!” You pouted, hoping that your friend would take pity upon you. You tried to sound as pathetic as possible, and apparently- after a night of heavy drinking and a wonderful yet strenuous early wakeup call- you didn't need to try that hard to sound worse for ware.

 

“Why don't you jog to the café across the road and get a drink to go?” Dane suggested.

 

You give a dramatic huff, sinking into your lumpy sofa.

 

“Tsk, no, because that means I'd have to: 1) put clothes on, b) move further than the sofa, 3) use my own legs to get there, and some other fourth reason that I can't quite think of just yet. I am neither willing nor able to do any of those things right now, which means no café coffee.”

 

“Oh my gods, you're such a child: it's like you've never been hungover before. Besides, I spend all day making coffee for people. It’s one of my very rare days off, so why should I?”

 

“You’re just being obtuse!” You snap and he snickered in response. “Fine if you’re just going to be cruel, maybe I’ll go see if Candy is at work yet and I’ll get coffee from her. I mean, she did leave about an hour ago but I'm sure she'd be happy to see me…” Your mouth curled into a cheshire grin.

 

“Low blow, dude. Low blow.” Dane scolded, but didn't sound particularly wounded. Thankfully your intention wasn't to actually upset him. Your constant back and forth banter only pushed as far as the last comment went, whether it was flirting or petty arguing, and you both knew that limits were not meant to be crossed. It was reassuring that neither of you would never truly be hurt in your lighthearted squabbling.

 

“Ah, sorry. I’m just irritable, and extra sleepy from-”

 

“So…” He interrupted without warning. Oh.. You recognised that inquisitive tone of voice, “You left before I could ask. Tell me everything.”

 

“Coffee in exchange for gossip!” You bargained.

 

“Bring me some chocolate, and we’ve got a deal.”

 

Five minutes and one giant bar of chocolate later, you were flopped diagonally across Dane’s frankly ginormous sofa, sipping on water to swill down more painkillers. Rehydration was helping immensely, but the pulsing pain across your temples made you hope the pills kicked in quickly.

 

Dane scurried into the tv room, looking as eager as a puppy for you to start spilling the metaphorical beans, and in his broad hands he clutched two of his largest mugs filled with fresh coffee.

 

“You look like shit.” He beamed at you with little-to-no sense of tact, and gently placed your designated mug onto a fancy coaster made of dark wood.

 

“Thanks for the confidence booster.” You groan as you reached pathetically over to the coffee table, which was just out of reach. “Hey, is that bubinga?” You asked, pointing vaguely to the small disks of burnt orange wood.

 

“Yeah, I think it was a gift from my aunt.” Dane took a seat on his reclining couch and tilted his head at your prone form. “Why?”

 

“Ugh, it was a whole… thing.” You wave dismissively. The action caught the attention of a set of large yellow eyes that carefully followed the rhythmic movements. Without warning Eggsen pounced upon your stomach and you hollered at the uncomfortable nausea that shot up your throat, but the sound came out as a surprised warble. The kitten seemed to take your gargled scream as a sign of surrender and stopped chewing upon your knuckles to knead at your thick woolen sweater.

 

You wheeze and clutch the tiny kitten closer to your abdomen. “Oh my goddess, you're like a tiny, furry hot water bottle. Stay there forever.” You command.

 

Eggsen offered no response- being a regular animal and all- but he gave off a happy, rumbling purr as you scratched softly underneath his chin. The pointed ends of his whiskers tickled and poked at your wrist, and the gentle vibrating was very soothing. Bit by bit the sick feeling in your stomach subsided and you began to relax, unable to help yourself when your eyelids slid shut.

 

“Hey, no sleeping. It's storytime!” Dane barked, startling you into sitting straight up. Eggsen would have been launched across the room from the speed of your movement, if not for the pointy, pointy claws digging into the fabric of your shirt. His wide yellow eyes darted around and the fluff of his tiny tail had expanded to thrice its usual size. You glared across at Dane, who gave a rightfully sheepish grin. Clearly he was still getting used to the idiosyncrasies of owning a cat. You smoothed Eggsen’s dappled brown fur and tried to calm the overstimulated kitty.

 

After heaving a heavy sigh through your nose and then taking a great slurp from the cup, you began with your trip to the pet shop.

 

By the time you'd finished Dane was sat leaning forward, totally enraptured, with his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped tightly around his coffee.

 

“So let me get this right: you got a job with a boss you can't stand.”

 

You nod.

 

“A boss who is insanely handsome and is quite possibly one of the richest people in the country- besides the Monster monarchy.”

 

“I never said ‘insanely handsome’!” You protest, “I said ‘ _relatively_ handsome’, but that might just be the fancy tailored suits.”

 

“And your new boss’ assistant is, and I quote, ‘creepy beyond words and quite possibly a serial killer.’”

 

You nod again. _You had said that._

 

“and you accepted the position to spite the boss, whom you hate.”

 

“And money, which I do not hate.” You add.

 

“Spite and money, right. Of course.”

 

Nod. Nod again.

 

“But his kids are cute so it's kinda worth it?”

 

You agree. _So much nodding._

 

“But also something about child abuse?”

 

“Probably not, but you can never be too sure.” You interrupt.

 

“And you also have some weird toy trade going on in the background, like, is that code for ‘drug deal’? Should I be worried?”

 

“No drugs. Just toys. Literal children’s toys. Sorta. Collectibles. Very rare, very expensive.” You shrug half-heartedly.

 

“And _then_ you banged Candy-”

 

“Eww, don't say that! You sound like a.. I dunno, a hippie, or a high school douchebag.”

 

“Fine. You, uh, sexed Candy real good-” A pause as he waits upon your approval.

 

“Much better.” You smirk.

 

“And _then_ your boss rudely interrupted it by calling you- which, might I add, you stupidly answered- and in the midst of everything he heard you accidentally moan like a 20G-per-minute sex phone-line worker. And now you're here, super hungover.” He blinks at you.

 

“Dude. Have some class.”

 

“My bad. You'd probably charge, what, 40G per minute? 50?”

 

“At the very least! I'm a classy woman! Those workers have to be compensated for their efforts, not to mention all the creeps that call in. It seems that I attract more creeps than usual, therefore a higher price.”

 

Dane placed his empty coffee mug down and scoffed.

 

“What?” You yawn, suddenly feeling the urge to sleep for a million years.

 

“When did your life get so interesting?” He laughs, absentmindedly switching through the TV channels and settling on a live, local marathon.

 

“I know, right!” You exclaim, “When I say it out loud, it all sounds like a bad novel or something.”

 

Dane gave a contemplative hum, “Like, maybe not a novel with a movie deal, but it's definitely like the plot of those terrible rom-com books that you can only seem to buy at airports.”

 

“Gods, tell me about it.”

 

“At least you don't have to worry about plot twists with axe murderers or international spy encounters, only love triangles and convoluted misunderstandings which lead to conflicts that could have been easily avoided with proper communication. Give it a year, maximum, and you'll be richer than you've ever imagined, with a dream career, married to Doctor Boss, and then you can adopt his cute kids!”

 

You snort and unceremoniously toss a throw pillow at his smirking face.

 

You spend the rest of the day vegetating on Dane’s sofa with Eggsen snuggled and snoring softly upon your lap. Dane would occasionally retreat into the kitchen to bring out extra coffee or fruit juice, or light, healthy meals like soup, and a chicken salad.

 

“How are you even functioning? You had this disgustingly bright and chipper look on your face when I came down this morning.” You grumble bitterly when Dane returned from an hour long session on his fancy treadmill.

 

“I guess I'm one of those lucky people that don’t get killer hangovers. I was okay after some water and an aspirin. Or maybe you has a bit too much to drink.” He shrugged, patting at his sweating forehead with a towel slung over his shoulder. You were so zoned out that you hadn't even noticed he'd changed into a loose vest and a pair of gym shorts. All he needed was a brightly coloured bib and he could join in with the hoards of marathon runners on the television

 

“I'm jealous. But last night was awesome, so feeling like death as a result is totally worth it.” You sigh, but truthfully you were feeling much more alive after Dane had spent hours coaxing water and food into you. _What an angel._ You set your empty juice glass down upon the suspiciously clean table. Now that you thought about it the entire apartment was spotless. It was as if the party hadn't even happened!

 

“By the way, who cleaned up?” You ask as you sit up and settled into the corner of the sofa.

 

“Oh, a couple of guys stayed behind to help. ‘Was real nice of them.”

 

“Really?” You ask incredulously. “This work is far too thorough for a pair of drunks.”

 

“Hah, hell no! Everyone was totally wasted. I hired a cleaning service. This freaky old lady wanted to know everything about the party: asking if there were any ‘pretty ladies swooning over me’. I'll have to invite her to the next party, she was hilarious!” He laughed.

 

You buried your face under a pillow.

 

“Also, I can smell last night’s vodka oozing from your pores. Go shower and get an early night.” Dane’s voice was muffled through the thick fabric. He was sometimes a little blunt, but he simply didn't like to dance around the point, especially when it was for your own good.

 

“Fine!” You sighed, not wanting to move at all. He was right though, you could smell how much you'd been sweating that morning and it all left you feeling rather… sticky. _Ick. Ew. Gross._

 

Before leaving you helped to wash the dishes and copious amount of coffee stained mugs that you'd left around the house, and waved goodbye to Dane and Eggsen. As you reached your front door you could hear your friend shouting, “Don't forget to drink more water!”

 

A shower helped immensely after your utterly laborious trek up the stairs, and despite wanting to do nothing more then relax in bed and sleep, you pretended to be productive.

 

You refolded and tidied away the laundry that you'd shoved onto the floor last night- _Thanks for that, drunk you-_ whilst binge watching documentaries for a blog post you'd had planned for a while. The expansive history of a leading toy brand was quite a task, but it was fun to learn cool facts about obscure, cancelled toys and games. Occasionally you'd make notes, and write down quotes to make it seem more professional. If you produced the piece to a high enough quality, perhaps you could publish it in guest-spots of a collectibles magazine, or use it as a piece for your freelance portfolio?

 

With smudging ink and sloppy handwriting, the quality of your noted spiralled down as you found yourself not really focusing on a long grey production line, with the documentary narrator droning on about assembly and quality assurance. You sleepily fumbled around your blankets, searching for your phone as you suddenly remember something.

 

Typing in the email address with reflexive muscle memory, you send an acquaintance a quick message:

 

 **From** :

YourProfessionalEmail@ReadMail.com  
  
**To** :

ThinkOutsideTheToyBox@ReadMail.com  
  
_**R.E**_ :

Cashing in IOU. Reply ASAP!!

 

[ATTCH: TransformatonNinjaRed198X.IMG., ninjared198XSupplyStats.PDF., MarketvalueStats197X-20XX.PDF.]

 

Hey. 

Remember that you owe me a huge favour? 

Well, I need your help.

 

~

 

Everything was going wrong: drool had stuck your notebook to your face, your hands were smudged with ink, you _still_ hadn't sought a replacement for your coffee machine, and you'd woken up so late that you didn't even have time to stop at the coffee shop. Your stockings laddered just as you were leaving the apartment, your car had trouble starting, traffic was a nightmare- all of which were clear signs that your day would probably be horrific, at it was barely 8 in the morning.

 

Everything seemed to pile up with one problem crashing atop the others, so when you finally parked outside of Dr. Gaster’s house, you were a very small step away from a breakdown.

 

Pushing your car keys into your bag and setting that aside, you sighed heavily. Anxiety was worming its way into your gut, and you weren't sure why- perhaps you were simply expecting some other disaster to occur and you were preparing yourself for the frustration?

 

 _How silly- I need to calm down if I'm going to make it through the day in one piece,_ You thought.

 

You hunched over the steering wheel with your head in your hands. You hoped to push the problems away by furiously rubbing the heel of your palms into your eyes.

 

“Right. Calm down. No more disasters from now on.” You spoke aloud as calmly as you could. “Sure, You've had a tough morning, but now you get to relax and have a nice morning getting the kids to school and-”

 

**KNOCK  KNOCK  KNOCK-**

 

Somebody’s thick knuckles rapped upon the driver’s side window and you flinched upright, accidentally pressing the horn button on your steering wheel. The only upside to that was the loud **HONK** covered the sound of your startled shriek.

 

You looked up, wide eyed and frazzled. Though the smudged and dirty window,  Gaster quirked a brow.

 

“What are you doing?” He asked. You were sure it wasn't a sincere question, but a rhetorical one that implied you needed to stop wasting time and hurry out of the car. In the quiet of your safe space you let out a frustrated groan. Gaster’s shoulders tensed at the noise, but he composed himself.

 

“I’m trying not to have a breakdown.” You informed him with carefully measured words as you stepped out into the sunshine.

 

“I see. Perhaps do that in your free time, yes? Right now we have an appointment to make and we simply cannot miss it.” He pushed your car door closed with a force that rocked the entire vehicle.

 

You stood staring up at Gaster, open mouth.

 

“Don't just stand there looking more gormless than usual. Go do what people do when they want to look acceptable, gussy yourself up, powder your nose..” He hurried you along, pushing against the small of your back to help you to the front door.

 

“Are you going to powder your nose?” You asked sarcastically.

 

“Of course not: I don't need to because I already look impeccable. You, on the other hand, look like… well, it would be unprofessional for me to say.”

 

You snort. “Like that's ever stopped you in the past.”

 

Gaster narrowed his hooded violet eyes and glowered. “Go tidy up. You have precisely 5 minutes.”

 

“Where are the boys?” You asked as you were steered towards the staircase. He was so intent that you barely had time to slip your shoes off.

 

“They have piano lessons to attend to- now go!” He urged impatiently.

 

The carpeted hallways were soft and springy beneath your feet, and the quiet of the house enveloped you. It took you a moment to find your room- _uhm_ , the room intended for the au pair- but you hurried into the attached bathroom suite.

 

It was all very white, clean, and brightly lit, but it was not as sterile and impersonal as you'd expected. The cupboards were freshly stocked with bottles of bleach and cleaning supplies, unopened packets of toothbrushes, and fancy scented soaps and shampoos. Large, fluffy, cream coloured towels were hung upon heated metal racks, and stacked on a holder were bountiful rolls of plush toilet paper that were certainly an upgrade from your discount store brand single-ply paper. The bright spotlights shone overhead, and you were glad that the ventilation fan was quiet and discrete. Dainty white tiles lined the floor and walls, a large shower head stooped over a corner of the wet room, hidden behind an opaque panel of blue glass that split the room in half. You meandered over to the other half and looked into one of several mirrors hugging the walls. Remembering Gaster's urgency you only took a moment to settle your things upon the counter top and lean over the sink to peer closer as you touched up your makeup. You were lucky that you'd left it all in your purse, and not your bag, which was still sitting on the passenger seat in your car.

 

With a fresh coat of powder and a pep talk to steel your nerves, you were ready to face this mystery appointment, and whatever Gaster had to say about… _the incident_. You rather hoped that he'd completely forgotten about it or hadn't even heard to begin with, but judging from the way he tightly gripped onto your shoulder as soon as you'd put your shoes back on, you were in no such luck. His hold was just tense enough to make you worry, but not so much as to make you feel threatened. You imagined that was a line very easily crossed, but he didn't seem like the type to be so unprofessional as to get physical and violent over such an embarrassing accident.

 

With the patience of a stressed single father,he wordlessly guided you back down the grand stone steps of the front door by the strong, long fingers clasped around your arm. You were not escorted back to your parking space, but directly to Gaster’s sleek black car. The hand released your arm, and ever the gentlemen, the Doctor held the passenger door open and gestured for you to get in.

You gave him a small smile, “How considerate. Thank you.” It was a small, but kind act that you actually appreciated.

You were also granted the small mercy of not receiving a witty, scathing remark in response. He merely shut your door and entered at the driver’s side, sliding the seat belt across his chest.

 

“Please do not forget to buckle up.” Gaster requested as the car engine hummed to life. The sound and feeling of your whole body softly vibrating reminded you of Eggsen’s rhythmic purr.

 

“If we are so unfortunate as to get into an accident and the force ejects you through the windshield, it would cause a mess that I do not have the capacity to deal with at the present moment.” He muttered, easily pulling out of the expansive driveway and onto the streets of Newest Home.

 

The clear streets and paths beyond the gatehouse were deceiving, for once you'd entered the city centre the traffic was at a standstill; bumper to bumper. Traffic jams were a regular occurrence within such a bustling city, but this volume was unnatural.  You couldn't even see where it began and where it ended. All you knew is that you were stuck right in the middle of it.

Gaster irately tapped his fingers upon the steering wheel in time to the quiet music whispering through the speakers.

 

“Uhm, Doctor, are you okay? You seem a little tense.” You swallowed, hoping that would ease the conversation into the direction you desired. Obviously you didn't _want_ to have such an awkward conversation with your new boss, but you just wanted it over and done with as quickly as possible.

 

“How astute of you to notice.” He grumbled. Several cars behind yours, somebody was beeping their horn continuously. Someone else joined in, and then people began leaning out of windows to shout.

 

Gaster sighed irritably, scolding the driver to himself, “That won't make the traffic disappear, fucking idiots.”

 

“See, you're snappier than usual. And I know the children aren't around, but that is totally going in the swear jar.” You smiled.

 

That garnered a small huff of laughter, and though he was facing out of the side window you could see his scarred cheek twitch with the hint of a smile.

 

“Yes yes, revel in the fact that you're right.” He settled back into his seat and faced forward. He hadn't make eye contact since you'd stepped out of your car. “I simply cannot believe I'd forgotten about the marathon disrupting traffic today. The city has had notices posted for weeks, but it seems I am out of sorts today.” His gravelly voice rumbled within the confined space of the car. _You'd never admit it out loud, but you did quite like the sound of his voice…_

 

“If I weren't so frazzled I would have remembered the marathon’s path weaves all through the city, and clearly some runners are still going even after starting last night. I should've remembered, but I haven't had a very good morning.” You admitted, trying to sound as casual as possible. In another effort to distance yourself from the conversation, you busied your hands with reapplying your lipstick in the sun visor’s mirror. Another hint of good luck: you'd found a tube of your favourite shade tucked into the corner of your purse.

 

“Everything seems to be going wrong.” You complained as you pulled off the cap.

 

He hummed in agreement. You glanced at him through the mirror and he finally looked at you. Your eyes met in the reflection as your lips were parted and the pad of your fingers pushed against the corner of your mouth to clean up the uneven line of colour. There was something in his expression that you tried to place, but he looked away just as quickly. The moment passed, but he still wore that strange expression with his eyes appearing bright and focused, his mouth pressed into a thin, hard line. He tried to focus on the car ahead, but it was obvious you weren't going anywhere: the traffic hadn't moved in the last few minutes.

 

 _Oh god, he was probably furious with you,_ you thought as you peeked down at his white knuckle grip upon the leather covered steering wheel. You gathered your courage and snapped the sun visor shut.

 

You opened your mouth to say something but the words caught in your throat- Gaster was staring at you curiously, shaking his head with a half amused, half exasperated smile.

 

“You have a little…” He pointed at the corner of your lip.

 

“Oh! Is there a smudge?” You pressed your fingers to your mouth and rubbed the skin, hoping you'd blended it away.

 

He rolled his eyes. “Now you've smudged it everywhere. No, no stop, you're making it worse. Stop.” His voice grew a little more authoritative.

 

Frustrated at watching your fumbling, his fingers caught loosely around your wrist to pull your hand away. Your fingers were smudged with colour, and you blushed heavily.

 

“Here, let me.” His other hand crooked a finger. You froze, unsure of what to do. Such a small, intimate act made your stomach drop and your chest feel tight, but you found yourself leaning in anyway.

 

Gaster’s eyes were intensely focused upon your mouth, and you were wilting under such attention. The pad of his thumb was soft and gentle against the skin just beneath your lip, and that very small moment seemed to stretch on and on as dragged his fingertip down. The friction caused your malleable skin to shift beneath his touch, and you could feel the hot breath from your parted mouth ghosting across his hand.

 

The noise and chaos of the traffic around you melted away. You were too transfixed in Gaster’s gaze now that he was looking directly at your eyes, and you were still trying to figure out exactly what that expression meant. His thumb hadn't left your lip, and though it had only been a second, his touch lingered and it burned into your nerves. An unexpected, barely audible gasp was pulled from your throat and you had to do something to break the spell.

 

“A-about the phone call-” You began, but Gaster simply removed his hand and held it up. You leaned back when he tightly closed his eyes. He heaved a breath through his nose.

 

“I should not have called outside of your contracted hours. You should not have answered whilst otherwise… _preoccupied._ We both made a mistake, so let us learn from this and move on, and never speak of it again.” His voice was artifically level and even.

 

You relaxed your shoulders. The muscles were feeling sore: you must have been holding them high and tight in preparation for a something, and you hadn't even realised. You were even holding your breath without notice.

 

“Agreed.” You breathed and quickly sat back.

 

As the traffic finally relaxed and cars began moving more freely, you sat stock still, though you were smiling with relief. Though Gaster was concentrating on driving and not paying attention to you at all, you tried your best not to fidget.

 

You stared out of the window, resisting the urge to bring your hand to your mouth, wishing to trace across the line where Gaster’s fingertips had burned into your skin.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so it begins.
> 
>  
> 
> Let's talk about Gaster's lip fixation over on [my Tumblr.](http://athenanuu.tumblr.com)


	9. Sign on The Dotted Line: Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AKA "The Restaurant Incident"  
> Inspired by something that actually happened to me whilst enjoying high tea in London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Throws down briefcase*  
> Darlings, I'm home~!
> 
> But seriously, thank you for being so patient whilst I've been gone! University is so hard and it's difficult for me to write and keep my grade high D:  
> Your support is what keeps me and my stories going and I appreciate each and every one of you (except those that leave nasty comments. I'd appreciate it if you didn't do that.) 
> 
> This chapter was getting seriously long so I've broken it up into 2 parts.  
> I did a little research into legal workings for this, so I hope this reads okay, but if not let's pretend that's how it works in this universe ;3

Buildings of grey brick and dense solar-glass loomed over the traffic. The bright autumnal sun was obscured, casting low and far-reaching shadows down the street. The rows and rows of shiny mirrored windows would have glittered in that morning light, if only it could have reached past the lofty tops of highrises and skyscrapers.

 

You wished the courts district had more greenery: the bland concrete walkways were sparsely decorated with thin birch trees and waxy looking shrubs here and there, but it did little to liven up the area as the plants were pale and droopy in their sun-deprived habitats. Only a few cafés, hotels and high end boutiques overlooked the busy streets, and they tried to add colour to the rows of bleak buildings; each restaurant sported blooming potted plants in a rainbow of colours, and exotic flower baskets hung above doorways and windows alike. The greens and yellows and reds stood out like fireworks amongst the drab browns and greys.

 

“So, where are we going?” You asked over the soft drone of pop music playing on the radio. You were still revelling in shock over the channel that Gaster had settled upon, but on the other hand you were not intimately aware of his musical preferences. Something told you that Papyrus would enjoy the synth-y bass and his father had probably picked up on the habits of his children.

 

“You would think the context clues would be enough.” Gaster’s low, gravelly voice rivaled that of the engine’s idling. You scoffed, and rolled your eyes.

 

The traffic had crawled to a standstill once more, and again, you were left sitting and fidgeting to pass the time. You smiled softly at the amused, patronising tones that you were quickly becoming desensitized to.

 

“And _you_ would think that context clues of my question are also asking the _reason_ of our trip, not just the destination.”

 

“Ah, the subtleties of conversation.” Gaster drummed his fingers upon the steering wheel, not answering your question at all. _Obviously he wanted you to guess at it. That would be entertaining._

 

“There are so many possibilities though. Maybe you're on jury duty? Perhaps you're heading to court to sue a PTA mother over her god-awful children and her even shittier bakewell tarts? Or is this is how you spend your leisure time, spying on briefcase clutching office workers and shambling bankers?”

You shrugged nonchalantly, the tough fabric of the seatbelt to digging into your neck.

“However, I wouldn't have to guess if you'd _actually_ given me the itinerary that I've been asking for throughout the past week! Or maybe… Gaster, is this..?”

 

You turned to him very seriously, face downturned with mock-dismay. His brow creased in worry.

 

“Is this a date?” You gasped, hand clutched daintily to your chest.

 

The flow of cars halted abruptly, causing Gaster to break hard. The force drove you forwards in your seat and the belt tightened painfully across your collarbone. You grumbled, but were rewarded with a short huff of laughter.

 

“I hope this isn't how you treat all of your employees! Some would cry ill intentions with these actions.” You tittered, but he was pretending to be too busy concentrating on the packed road ahead to dignify that with a response.

 

“Great stars above, do you ever stop?” He finally muttered, incredulous and frustrated.

“If you must know, we’re-” _Grrrbllggllll~!_

 

Your stomach cut him off with an almighty rumble. You felt a strange release of pressure against your diaphragm as the gurgling petered out. Gaster paused, eyebrows knitting together with his mouth pursed into a thin, tight line. Your stomach rolled with bile and the heart burn began. _Ouch. So hungry_.

 

“Did you have breakfast?”

 

“Eh?” You asked rather inelegantly.

 

“Have you, or have you not, eaten anything within the last 6 hours?” He enunciated clearly, speaking as if you were a very small child that was very much in trouble.

 

“Uh no, I didn't have time. It's not a big deal, I'll have an early lunch.”

 

Gaster tutted at that, and you physically recoiled. His emotional twists and turns were going to give you whiplash. _Stupid man._

 

He hummed thoughtfully before clearing his voice.

 

“Cadence, set up a three way call: Martin Thomas and London Freeway”

 

The smooth black panel that took up the majority of the dashboard bloomed into life, glowing a soft orange of a loading screen. The light made the violet hue of Gaster’s eyes look strange, colours jarring and clashing together. The screen automatically set up a call, and you stared at the panel with rapt fascination when a dialing tone echoed from a speaker by your shoulder.

 

“Oohh, fancy.” You let out a coo of delight before you were violently shushed. You glared daggers, but Gaster feigned ignorance once more.

 

“Good morning, Freeway Legal, how may I help?” A chipper young man answered.

 

“I have an appointment with Mrs Freeway at 9:15 but something’s come up, is it possible for you to patch me through?” Gaster asked.

 

“Oh, Hello Doctor Gaster. Good to hear from you again!” The man chirped, “Of course, I'll put you through now. Take care.”

 

His voice was replaced with low-budget waiting music. It was a very low quality dance remix version of a classical song that you recognised but couldn't ever possibly name.

 

“Oh, how dare they butcher DJ Beethoven’s 5th symphony in G minor.” You tutted.

 

“You are a black hole of stupidity and hunger. Please stop speaking immediately.” Gaster scoffed, but the twitch of his mouth gave him away.

 

“No, because you're smiling.” You teased with a satisfied smirk.

 

“I am and I hate it.” Gaster slumped back in his seat.

 

The horrific music continued, and was suddenly replaced with another voice. You tuned out, choosing instead to stare beyond the traffic at the small café to your left. A notice board advertised a special on pancakes. _Hmmmm, pancakes._

 

You stomach let out another disgruntled shout, demanding food or the consequences would be dire. _Starvation was imminent. You'd wither away to nothing! It would take a while, but you would wither away nonetheless._

 

“As I was saying before we were so _rudely_ interrupted,” Gaster looked pointedly at you before turning his attention back to the display. He was on a video conference call with two people, the screen split in half to show each person in different offices. You imagined Gaster’s camera was discreetly hidden upon the plastic front of his sun visor, which he had pulled down to cast a shadow upon his face against the harsh reflections of light from the mirrored buildings. One one half of the screen a portly, middle aged man was holding his hand around his mouth, and his shoulders were shaking with barely contained laughter.

 

“Oh Martin, not you too.” Gaster massaged the bridge of his romanesque nose.

 

“Let's wrap this up. 9:20 at ‘L'hôtel de Neige’?” The woman on the other half of the screen asked, the bottle green feathers rustling around her neck. She looked a little irritated.

 

“Of course, I'm up for a late breakfast! I'll see you there.” The man said. The screen cut to black as the call ended.

 

“Wait, so where are we going now? A hotel?”

 

“L'hôtel de Neige, or more specifically to their restaurant.”

 

“Why?” You asked, or at least tried to before your stomach decided to make itself known again. “Sorry.” You mumbled, reflexively grasping your midriff.

 

“Human anatomy is frightfully complex: there are so many systems totally beyond your control.” Gaster shrugged.

 

“That sounded… clinical. But I suppose getting answers from you _is_ like pulling teeth.” You twirled a hand to urge him on.

 

“If the traffic stays like this, and it will do for a considerable amount of time, we will be late for our appointment. However, if I were to pull over here,” Gaster flicked the stick for the indicator, and twisted to steering wheel to pull out of the traffic. The car sped beneath the fancy fabric canopy of an empty side street, “we would simply have to wait for our acquaintances to arrive.

 

With practiced ease he pulled up to a valet booth in the sizable car park behind the hotel. The area was remarkably well kept, but you imagined that the hotel was ridiculously fancy and expensive to be situated right in the centre of the courts district, thus justifying keeping the place immaculate.

The rooms must cost hundreds- maybe thousands- per night, and if you were going to dine in the restaurant you'd have to settled for the cheapest salad available, and tap water.

 

“I'm not dressed for the occasion!” You insisted.

 

As you stepped out onto the concrete Gaster looked you up and down before handing the keys over to a tall moustached man in a well pressed suit. Valet serving was entirely new to you. It seems rather opulent, and entirely unnecessary as the driver parked the car mere feet away in  a secured lot.

 

“You look okay.” He shrugged.

 

“But why a restaurant?” You asked as Gaster pressed his hand to the small of your back, and guided you through the ornate glass doors and up several flights of stairs.

 

“Several reasons:” He dipped close to your ear as the chatter of dining guests picked up. It was loud within the hallway, despite the plush red carpeting and strange wall drapery.

“This way I can drink whiskey and have it be considered classy as opposed to day-drinking. Secondly, I won't have to sit through an hour of legal drivel in a stuffy office with your stomach making that incessant noise, which would inevitably lead me to commit defenestration.“

 

Your shoulders sagged. That was a horrifying sounding word.

 

“What's that?” You halted your steps in front of the unattended maître d' desk. You had to speak up over the noise of the packed restaurant. A thick book filled with reservations and table numbers sat open on the dark wood top, besides several pens and a stack of crisp white business cards. You automatically picked one up and pocketed it.  

“It involves windows and the action of throwing someone out, but I would prefer to avoid where possible.” He replied smoothly as the senior staff arrived. Swiftly, his hand left your spine and for some reason you mourned the loss of it. He straightened his jacket and clasped his own wrist behind his back.

 

“Careful, Doctor.” You looked down to your own outfit and frowned, feeling underdressed and out of place, “Some people might start to think you care about my well being if you keep up that kind of talk.”

 

~

 

“Why is this all in French? Why are all fancy restaurants French?” You gawked, trying to look like you fit in with the suited guests and intricate, tiny portions of food.

 

Delicate music sung through the room, emanating from a lithe young woman sat at a piano. From your seat upon a plush velvet chair you could make out her fingers working tirelessly across the ivory and onyx keys. She made it look effortless and elegant as she sat tall in her long blue dress and dainty gold necklace that shone in the candlelight. The breaks in her performance were filled with delicate applause. She would flash a grateful smile of pearly white teeth and twinkling brown eyes to the audience before picking up the music once more.

In that moment, a very small part of you envied her.

 

“Would you like me to make a recommendation?” Gaster asked between small sips of his wine. Through the hole in his palm you could see the rich, ruby red liquid inside the thin crystal glass.

 

“Whatever is the cheapest.” You shrugged, studying the leather bound menu once more.

 

“And why in Goddess’ name would you prefer a side order of poached eggs and watercress over something as substantial as a tenderloin filet?” Gaster blanched, setting his wine glass down in shock.

 

“Because a ‘tenderloin filet’ costs the same amount as two month's worth of grocery shopping, and I know which my bank account would prefer.” You hissed over the finely decorated table, gripping your tall glass of lemon water.

_It cost 20G. It was delicious._

 

The Doctor regarded you for a moment, tilting his head a little.

“Oh, is that all?”

 

“What do you mean is that all- it's 257G, of- of course that is all!” You gasped, thoroughly in awe of his ignorance.

 

“260 Gold to last two entire months? How does one even get by on that? What do you eat? I swear upon the Moon herself, if you say instant ramen or cabbage soup, I am going to build another rocket and shuttle myself directly into the Sun.” He gestured wildly to the thick red velvet curtains and the sunbaked view of the city beyond.

 

Your mouth was open as you paused, considering what to say next: teeth clicked together as your jaw closed, and your lopsided smile became more and more sheepish by the second.

 

“In my defense, I make a mean cabbage soup-”

 

Gaster scrunched his eyes shut and his long fingers massaged a temple. He looked physically pained.

“Perhaps death would be more quickly and efficiently obtained by throwing myself into the nearest oven...”

 

“Well how convenient, we _are_ sitting just besides a fully stocked kitchen with several industrial ovens, all of which are large enough to accommodate your bloated ego! I'll order a bloody steak and wait whilst you chose which vegan truffle casserole you'd like to stick your head besides!” you snapped in a tone low enough to convey your frustrations without the volume leaving the booth. You _were_ in polite society, after all.

 

“Ah, I see you're getting on spectacularly with Dr. Gaster!” A familiar-but-not-quite voice chimed up. You both spun to the source. A large, jovial looking man moved to sit next to Gaster in your enclosed window booth. The closed in walls felt a little too intimate with the lit candles and soft music, but with extra company you were relieved when that relaxed into simple privacy.

Gaster huffed and picked up his wine, sulkily staring out of the window. He was probably considering the survival rate if he jumped from the seventh story via the window.

 

“Wonderful to meet you,” The man placed his suitcase upon his lap and stuck his hand across the table, “Martin Thomas, Employment Law at Benson & Benson.”

 

You took his hand with a firm grip and shook it. “And you must London Freeway?” You asked, peering around Martin’s broad shoulders.

 

The Bird Monster gave a curt nod, and her beak twisted at the corner in a small, polite smile. Her richly coloured feathers were peppered with touches of silver amongst the green, and her large orange eyes were lined with small wrinkles. _Heh, crows feet._

 

You smiled in greeting as she took your outstretched hand. Her claws hooked into your skin, but at least her palms weren't sweating like Martin’s.

 

“Pleasure to finally meet you.” London took the seat besides your own.

 

“‘Finally’?” You turned to Gaster with narrowed eyes, “I sure hope he hasn't been speaking of me too much behind my back.”

 

London lets out a small, cooing chuckle at that. “Only good things, I assure you. Though mostly relating to business, which is thoroughly professional chatter.”

 

You nod and Martin chimes up, “I certainly imagined you differently... Well, after our dear Doctor here mentioned that you- OUCH!” He doubled over, reaching a hand down to rub at his leg and glared at Gaster over his shoulder.

 

“My apologies,” Gaster’s lips had pursed into that tight line again, “I had forgotten I was holding that.” He gracefully pulled his hand from beneath the table and placed a polished silver fork back besides the rows of cutlery flanking his plate.

 

Your face flushed in shock, and as curious as you were to find out _what_ Gaster had been saying about you, if he wasn't in a sharing mood you didn't want to push it. His expression was unreadable and he offered no further explanation.

 

London gave an uncomfortable cough and nodded to the waiter that was standing to attention at the head of the table. You buried yourself into your hair, and with a soft nod let Gaster order for you as you played with the hem of your shirt beneath the table. You felt a little ungainly surrounded by the elegance of the restaurant, too out of place within a world of fine dining and sharp lapels.

 

A fine crystal glass filled with more lemon water was placed carefully upon your slate coaster, and you smiled in thanks.

 

“So, why have you been talking about me, in regards to business?” You asked as the waiter hurried away.

 

“You haven't told her?” London cocked her head and Gaster, who merely shrugged.

“Honestly, I shouldn't expect more from you by now. I often don't expect anything, yet I am constantly surprised.” She clucked.

 

“Essentially, I am acting on behalf of you as a lawyer, and a witness.” She spoke smoothly to you. Your brain span a few times, tumbling with a confused thrill.

 

“Witness?” You squeaked, clutching at your cold glass for stability. A thrill of horror of the unknown ran down your spine, and you unconsciously stiffened.

 

“I will help you run through an NDA, a Non Disclosure Agreement, and any other contracts that have been thrust upon you. Martin here is acting on behalf of Doctor Gaster.” London blinked several pairs of eyelids and pulled out her own briefcase. A thick manilla folder was slapped against the white brocade table cloth, and you gulped.

 

“But first, we dine upon the fruits of the earth, for the toil of work shall spoil it.” Gaster’s eyes as he smirked at you from across the table, lifting his fresh glass of red in a small toast.

 

“But.. isn't that how you make wine?” You couldn't help but ask. His face wrinkled in confusion, his low thoughts of your words were very apparent. “Like, you intentionally spoil the fruits, ferment them, and make wine?” You pressed onwards into the silence of the table. Your gut gave way as your brain wondered if you had just said something incredibly stupid amongst these high ranking professionals.

 

“Oohh,” Martin nudged the Doctor in the side with a large elbow, “I can see why you like her.”

 

“And there is the wit he often bickers about.” London smirked, enjoying the way Gaster shuffled uncomfortably. His only solace from the teasing tones of his peers was food arriving, the stiff-backed waitress placing down steaming piles of food plated upon slate tiles instead of dining crockery.

 

You stared down at your cutlery, all 4 rows of shiny polished knives and forks and strangely shaped spoons. You snuck a glance across to Gaster, who half murmured, “Usually you'd work from in outside inwards, but due to the fact we have skipped any appetiser courses, you'd use the next one in.”

 

London and Martin were speaking animatedly in between mouthfuls, you caught talk of clients and projects that were well above your line of work, but you were glad that- if they had heard and had opinions on Gaster essentially teaching you the basics of fine dining- they did not make it known.

 

You nodded mutely to the Doctor and tucked in to your perfectly prepared steak. It took a great deal of effort not to moan as the meat practically melted upon your tongue, but you allowed your shoulders to drop as the tension left you. The peppercorn sauce was light yet hearty, and the vegetables were seasoned to perfection. It was no wonder that a single dish could cost so much as the talent of the chef was evident in every mouth full, and you wished that the meal could be a regular occurrence. You were so thoroughly enjoying your food that you barely noticed when it was all gone.

 

“I daresay I'm tempted to lick the plate clean!” London chimed as she daintily dabbed at the corners of her beak with an embroidered napkin, looking all parts sated and content. “That pumpkin seed and pine nut salad was delicious; I shall certainly order it again if I ever return.”

 

“I think my meal plans in the future will be relatively boring in comparison to that.” You sighed happily. “I need to learn how to sear a steak just like that, but I suppose part of the appeal is not having to cook anything yourself.”

 

“Not to mention that the head chef will tight lipped with his secrets!” Martin chuckled in agreement.

 

Gaster only let out a hum. You cocked an inquiring brow but he only supplied: “It was adequate.”

 

With plates cleared from the table and coffee ordered, there was an unspoken but unanimous agreement to get to business. You were at a loss again, unable to busy your hands with cutlery or napkins, so you shifted uneasily, passing time by digging in your pockets to find a pen.

 

Gaster wordlessly slid a gilded pen across the table, alongside a printed copy of your work contract. The document was thick, bound with heavy duty bulldog clips, with near undecipherable small print that referenced several extra reading materials and subcontracts.

 

“Have you read this through?” London asked, pulling her chair a little closer to yours.

 

You nodded, “Briefly, nothing stood out that would be detrimental, and much of the main contract was verbally negotiated. I've only signed that one, nothing else.” You nodded to the thinner initial contract.

 

“That's good to hear: I'm glad that you didn't just sign your soul away without thorough checking.” She gave a little tinkling laugh as your boss rolled his eyes.

“Why don't you read through it again whilst Gaster and I talk about the NDA, and if there's anything in there that you'd like to bring up or confirm, let me know.”

 

“Feel free to make notes,” Gaster gestured to the thick wad of paper, “I came prepared with multiple copies.”

 

You squinted suspiciously up at him. “I didn't see you bring anything in.” There was _no way_ he could have smuggled in such a large amount of documents without you noticing. But again, from seemingly thin air beneath the table, he retrieved another pen and new copy of the contract.

 

He gave a knowing chuckle and his smug smirk made your stomach twist with a feeling you couldn't quite place. “The key is to never reveal your entire arsenal; without any mystery, I would be thoroughly bored.”

 

“You shouldn't say those kind of thing infront of lawyers:” You scolded, reading through the contents of the contract, “makes it seem like you have too much to hide.”

 

~

 

“Can you explain that again, please? This wording is very…” You trailed off, hoping that a wave of a hand would be enough to explain how illegible the text was.

 

“Dense?” London offered, sipping her third cup of coffee. You'd been at it for over an hour and you were hoping to wrap things up soon.

 

“I was going to say obtuse, but that works too.” You snorted.

 

Gaster and Martin were deep in conversation, and even London's layman explanations were starting to sound garbled to your ears.

 

“I'm sorry,” You admitted softly, “I think I need a break, just for a minute.”

 

“Take as long as you need!”

 

You stood, glancing around the room to find a sign for the bathrooms. You heard a waitress laugh behind you, thoroughly absorbed in her chatter with a customer, and just as you turned to ask her for directions she bumped into you with a surprising force.

 

The trays balanced on her hands tipped and the old, sticky remnants of half drunk coffees, sodas and alcohols poured down your clean white shirt. Several glasses slipped past the lip of the tray and crashed around your feet, despite the waitress trying to catch them. Shards nicked at your legs as they fell to the ground and in several places your thin tights laddered immediately.

 

“Oh my, I- I-!” She began, babbling half sentences of apologies as her hands clenched and unclenched. You stepped backwards, avoiding the dropped trays and glass mess.

 

The room had gone silent. It felt as if every patron and each member of staff were watching you; several gasped, a couple tutted in disgust, and one man even let out a triumphant cheer as the more glasses broke until he was silenced with a scolding, “ _Shut up Harold!”_

 

Embarrassment coloured your cheeks and shame settled heavily into the pit of your stomach. Tears pricked in your eyes as you held up a hand. You were not sure whether it was to stop the waitress talking, or to give yourself time to pause and push back the tears.

 

“It- it's okay. Accidents happen.” You managed squeeze out past the thick knot in your throat. “Can you show me to a bathroom, please?”

 

“Let me get you a towel! Come with me! Oh Gods, I'm so sorry.” The waitress sniffled, abandoning her attempts to pick up the dangerous shards of glass.

 

Some tables had picked up their conversations once more, but many were still gawping in stunned silence. The waitress lead the way around the outskirts of the room, but many tables you passed were home to sympathetic glances, talking that ranged from hissing conversations of distaste, to barely held back guffawing. Your guide let her head hang low and you couldn't help but bunch your shoulders tight in defense.

 

She held the bathroom door open for you and did not made eye contact as she half whispered, “I'll get you something to help clean up.”

 

You were left in the silence of the pristine white bathroom. Minutes passed as you stood rooted in shock, feeling the repulsive trickle of god-knows-what run down your arms and the back of your shirt. It left a dripping puddle on the floor and you took small steps towards the large marble basins.

You couldn't help but hesitate, not wanting to physically see the damage. It took you another minute to steel yourself, but finally you glanced in the mirror. Red wine and dark tonics stained the entire front of your shirt with swirls of browns, coffee foam and cream sat heavily in your hair and splashes of a strange green liquid were still dripping down your cheeks. Your maskara was running and lipstick was smeared from where you'd hastily wiped at your face. You bit the inside of your lips but the tears spilled anyway, leaving clean tracks down your soiled skin. It was hard to hold them back, thinking of all the gossip in the dining hall, and the look of utter dismay on the young waitress’ face. One small relief was that the bathroom was empty, but it wouldn't stay like that for long.

 

Allowing yourself the relief of crying, you made liberal use of the lavender scented soaps dotted in front of the sinks: scrubbing your arms, face and neck until the skin was rubbed red, but clear. You tried to wash away the larger splotches of drink rapidly hardening onto your hair, and using one of the fancy hot air hand-dryers lining the walls to blast it dry. It still felt crusty beneath your fingers, despite using enough soap to make you nearly blind to the smell of it. You heaved a sigh through your nose and debated on whether to simply dry your shirt, or try to clean it first.

 

A knock echoed around the quiet room and you jolted, half wondering why somebody would knock on the door of a semi-public bathroom. Glancing between the closed door and the empty stalls, you debated if you should hide and sit out your shame in insolation. Another knock.

 

“Are you decent in there?” An unfamiliar voice asked, muffled by the thick mahogany wood and odd ruby drapery.

 

“Yes!” You croaked, and the door slowly opened.

 

An older lady in a black woolen blazer walked in and her wrinkled face held a soft smile as she spoke.

“Oh good, I didn't just want to barge in if you were cleaning up.”

 

“I'm just beginning to think I should try again. I smell like a bar floor that's been doused in lavender oil.” You cracked a weak joke, but your shoulders were shaking with more repressed sobs.

 

Her face fell, “Oh, Dear, don't cry. I know it's embarrassing but these people have nothing better to do than gossip.” She tutted and gently patted your shoulder. “Not one person offered to help. Shame on them!”

 

You fumbled and tucked a clump of crispy hair behind your ear. “It's okay, it was just an accident. The shirt was second hand anyway, it can be replaced.”

 

“Material goods can be replaced, but our prides and social standings are easily bruised.” The lady nodded knowingly, but broke another smile. “You've never known embarrassment until you've tripped over the hem of your ballgown and fallen down the stairs at a banquet.”

 

“I guess this is my equivalent.” You let out a watery chuckle, glancing down your ruined outfit, “Embarrassment thought that I didn't feel out of place enough in this fancy place, and decided to kick me in the face! I swear, I'm never setting foot in this side of town ever again.”

 

She gave a sympathetic sigh.

"As much as it hurt, it will pass. After my tumble I thought I'd never live it down. Yet just as I was wondering if I would ever get a break, so-and-so had an affair, or such-and-such vomited after too much tequila! There's always another story a week later, they gossip over that, and then no one ever remembers your incident.”

 

Your loathing was stopped in its tracks as her words caused the stirrings of warmth to bloom within your chest. The humiliation stung deep, and as much as you feared the gossip and mocking laughter surrounding the incident, this kind soul was bearing her own humiliations into the open in the hopes of lessening your own pain. It was as if she was saying that you were not alone with that feeling, without needing to say it at all. It took you a moment of silent contemplation, trudging through the burning humiliation to realise that she was right. The strange alienation was not forever, nobody would remember soon enough, so you just had to be strong enough to ride it out. 

 _Small steps,_ you thought _, just have enough courage to walk back into the dining room with your head held high, and the rest will follow in time._

 

You sighed again at your reflection, but felt a lot less shaky than before. You turned back to the woman and offered a small smile.

“Well, thank you for checking up on me. I truely appreciate it, but I should get back to cleaning off this lukewarm gunk. Do you have any idea if this is salvageable?”

 

“Oh!” The woman gasped, “I'm sorry, I'm here babbling away and I haven't even given you this!” Into your hands the lady pressed a card bag with a boutique logo stamped across the front. The bag was full to the brim with lush fabrics, and you could make out small glittery objects hidden within the folds. “Your lady companion was predisposed, so your husband asked me to give you this.”

 

Before you could even begin pulling out the contents of this mystery haul, you couldn't help but laugh aloud at her words and the sound echoed off the tiles. It was not a cruel laugh, but one of shock and great amusement.

 

“Husband? I hope you don't mean Doctor Gaster! Gods no, he's my boss!”

 

“Husband, friend, boss, it's all the same. I overheard the entire conversation and I've lived long enough to learn that if a man knows your dress size and sends an assistant to buy an emergency outfit for you, then he's definitely worth keeping around.” She gave a cheeky wink and made towards the door. “Hurry and change before he makes that poor waitress cry again; the stubborn fool is like acting like a wild dog protecting his pack, and nothing can call him off!"

 

“Outfit? Waitress? Dog?!” You asked, voice growing more shrill by the second. Quickly, you looked up from the bag, only to be answered by an empty room and the silent swinging of the bathroom door.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be nice to your servers and waiting staff! 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this chapter, if you did and want to chat about It, come say hello over on [my Tumblr!](http://athenanuu.tumblr.com)


	10. Sign On The Dotted Line: Part II

Before you had entered the restaurant, when you had wished that you were dressed for the place and occasion, you didn't expect it to come true- let alone like _this_.

As soon as it was obvious that the kindly lady would not be returning you scurried into one of the larger bathroom stalls, settling the boutique bag onto a shelf half filled with impossible-to-pronounce perfumes and spare rolls of toilet paper. You took little time in pulling out handfuls of scented packing paper to reveal an outfit that probably cost more than you made in an entire year. The receipt was still tucked underneath a pack of plain black stockings, but you couldn't bring yourself to read it yet: you didn't want to know exactly how much you were in debt to Dr. Gaster. At most you were expecting a simple work shirt and pair of black trousers, so you were astounded to find a small beaded bracelet and a matching tiered necklace, high denier stockings, a set of lacey lilac lingerie, a jacket, and a stunning black cocktail dress. The tags were so high-end that they didn't even list a price, but they confirmed that everything was brand new and purchased exactly in your size, from a store that you didn't even know existed. What was most peculiar to you- despite how creepy it seemed that Gaster had sent an assistant to buy you a new matching set of lingerie- was that your own bag was stuffed in the bottom, hidden beneath everything else. The worn leather bag that you very distinctly remember leaving on the passenger seat of your locked car, all the way back in Newest Home. Unzipping it revealed the rest of your makeup, more cash, debit cards, pepper spray, and trash. Nothing seemed to be missing, but you couldn't help but worry.

“What the fuck?” You said aloud, thoroughly confused as you tried to figure out how on earth Gaster had obtained it, and so quickly. With all the daytime traffic it would take nearly an hour to drive to Newest Home and back, and you'd only been in the bathroom for 15 minutes! Not to mention your car was locked. You hoped beyond hope that you wouldn't return to Gaster's home to find a smashed window or a shoddily picked lock. You couldn't afford to replace that right now.

After discarding your soiled clothes you examined the main bulk of the items. The smooth silk dress sat off the shoulder and finished respectably just above the knee, and the fitted blazer sported a voluminous lace peplum that hugged around your waist. At first you thought that the materials were black, but with a closer eye you could see they were a purple so dark that they would have blended right into a midnight sky. Both the dress and blazer fit you just as well as the stockings and lilac lingerie, and everything was tailored to perfection. Luckily your shoes had escaped the most of the mess, and you were grateful that the plain black flats worked well with your new ensemble. It felt wasteful to simply dump your ruined clothes into the trash bin, but you doubted anything but cleaning rags could be salvaged with such a concoction of drinks stained into the fabrics; your shredded tights had even fallen apart as you peeled them off.

As soon as you were dressed you pulled your hair into a smart bun, spritzed your wrists some a citrus perfume from a curved pink bottle, slapped on a fresh layer of makeup and finally let yourself gaze into the floor length mirror across the room. Seeing it all together made you realise that it looked eerily similar to a dress that you already owned. However, that dress was far too risque; so revealing that it was only suitable for a trashy event like Dane’s party, so of course you'd never wear it to work! Perhaps Gaster had so thoroughly figured you out already that he could guess your preferred style of clothes?

Whilst the colour may not have been one that you would have personally chosen- even _if_ were able to afford such an outfit- you still couldn't help but be in awe of the transformation. You looked like a powerful business woman, fitting right into the courts district with ease. The sight made you stand a little taller, holding yourself as if you actually belonged with these people, like you could mingle as one of them. You reasoned that even if it were like a powdered mask or some strange silk facade, then you would wear it as well as you possibly could.

 

The bracelet beads clicked together as you hooked your bags into the crook of an elbow and pushed open the bathroom door. The sound only grew louder as you pretended that your hands weren't trembling. To avoid eye contact with the other diners you stared passively off into the middle distance, as if their words couldn't hurt you and their gaze didn't sting. A part of you wondered if they would even recognise you now; no longer slouching in your oversized cardigan and generic black work skirt.

Your eyes narrowed in detestation as you spotted Gaster looming above the waitress that had bumped into you, a towel hung limply within her hands as she cowered. Her stance was closed off, but occasionally she would nod dumbly, unable to bring herself to speak. Even at this distance you could see her eyes were red and swollen. Gaster was neither shouting nor raising his voice, but you didn't need to hear what he was saying to know the words were not kind.

 _“Now that won't do at all_.” You thought as you marched, determined, towards your table.

The glass had been cleared away, but you thought the sound would have been a satisfying accompaniment to the rage bubbling within you.

“Stop talking, Gaster.” You snapped as soon as you had made it within ear shot, “‘makes it seem like you’re overcompensating for something.”

With a much gentler expression you turned to the waitress, ignoring the man completely.

“Don't listen to him; he's a sad old man who has nothing better to do than belittle wait staff.”

She opened her mouth to say something but you cut her off.

“No, don't apologise. It was an accident, it happens. I swear it's okay! I'm not upset with you, and I'm uninjured. Besides, no one is to blame: I wasn't looking where I was going, you were preoccupied but it's all fine now. No wonder you've had a hard shift; maybe ask your manager if you can take a break. I'd also like to talk to them, if you could send them over.”

Her expression fell into one of pure dread and the colour drained from her tear stained cheeks. The rich brown of her eyes was almost engulfed by the whites as they widened. You could almost see her warring internally, torn between objecting and obediently agreeing as her training had undoubtedly drilled in.

Before her fear could snowball you put her out of her misery.

“No, don't worry! I just want to rectify whatever my _friend_ here has put into motion.” You said as soothingly as possible, trying to keep the bite out of your words. The waitress sniffled and smiled up at you.

You weren't quite sure where this courage was coming from. Maybe it was the outfit, maybe it was the empathy you held for the frightened young woman. Gods only know that you were in her very shoes over a year ago, being yelled at by entitled patrons and angry customers, or perhaps it was that burning need to fix things whilst you were on the other side of the argument.

“Gaster, whilst I'm sure that you were only trying to defend my honour, punishing her for an accident is as futile as it is pathetic. I'd like for you to apologise.” You looked hard into his eyes, and for a moment you were afraid that he was going to punish you, say or do something cruel just to spite the fact that you were fighting back. _He's your boss! You're so fired. No one should speak to their fucking employer that way! Goodbye job, goodbye adorable skele-kids, goodbye wonderful salary._. You mourned.

In a rare fit of speechlessness Gaster opened and closed his mouth several times, but found himself unable to form more that a stuttering breath. It was difficult not to sag with relief when he begrudgingly relented.

“I- yes. My sincerest apologies. I was merely looking out for my young employee’s well being and pride, but now I see that fire is not one that can be dampened.” He gave a bow of the head, and apparently that sealed it for the waitress.

“Thanks.” She said in disbelief. With a nod she scurried away, weaving between tables without looking back and shoving through a door marked ‘Staff Only’.

 

 

Thankful that you could finally sit down again, you heaved out a great sigh to relieve some of the tension that had formed in a tight knot between your shoulder blades. You imagined that a massage would be absolute bliss after such a stressful day, but you'd already gotten a fancy meal and a new outfit so it was best to not test your luck.

“Doctor?” You asked as he took the seat opposite you once more. He stared at you with a blank expression, as if he was only just noticing that you were there.

“Thank you.” You finally said. “I do appreciate that you listened to me and apologised to her.”

Even if the apology wasn't as sincere as he made out, he still acquiesced in your demands and you couldn't help but revel in that tiny victory.

“And thank you for the dress. It's lovely. I don't think I've ever owned something so gorgeous. If you'll just give me time, I'll repay you.”

You puffed out your cheeks with a hesitant breath; it took much strength to try to gather the words together. You'd already mouthed off so much today, but you knew you wouldn't be able to sleep right without saying just a little more.

“Even though I'm grateful that you were trying to right a wrong done against me, maybe pick your battles more carefully next time. She's no different from me really: somebody on a much lower rung of the social ladder than you. You have nothing to gain from that argument besides fluffing your ego. If the situation genuinely called for it I wouldn't have stopped you, but it's not so entertaining when empathy gets in the way. I've been in her place before and I can tell you without a doubt that she would have lost her job by the end of the day if you had continued, or Gods forbid, pulled the ‘I want to speak to the manager’ line. People like that waitress and I have so much more to lose than the rest of these customers. I'd imagine you've never had to worry about it because you've always been secure, but jobs like this demand perfection when it simply isn't possible: we are only people after all.”

Gaster only hummed in response, looking away with great disinterest, but his face contorted into some unreadable expression that vexes the mind as you tried to decipher him. You wished he would speak, or do anything besides his quiet rumination, just to give you something to go on. The blasé attitude left you feeling off kilter: like you _needed_ some reaction from him to regain a semblance of even footing.

You never would have guessed that a quiet Gaster could make you much more nervous than a loud one.

 

~

 

London sat fidgeting at the bar, her face held in her hands with Martin stood patiently by her side. Occasionally she would pull a hand away from preening her feathers to nurse a large tumbler filled with amber liquid.

 _“She's probably mortified.”_ You thought. Eventually you caught Martin’s eye and waved them over. The group reconvened without a word, silently settling documents and manilla folders upon the dining table.

To try and piece the shattered organisation back together, you started slowly and ordered another round of coffees for everyone: partly to fuel your own lagging energy and partly to calm everyone down after what was- quite frankly- a fucking shitshow.

Just as your new waiter left to take the order ticket away, the manager arrived: a tall man wearing a dark blue suit with a flashy red lining that peaked out with each jaunty step, a smile upon his thin lips and a pen tucked behind his ear. He sidled up to the table with frantic, watchful eyes. Mostly he looked the part, with his sympathetic expression and ready-to-please aura, but something seemed... wrong. His smile was held too tight and placating, eyebrows furrowing for just a moment before he forced himself to relax. The thin veneer wavered from dominating, restraint, apprehension, frustration, and back again, and his watery blue eyes kept shifting back to Gaster, totally avoiding any contact with you. It took you a moment to fully absorb his body language, your subconscious picking up each twitch and flickering micro-expression, before it was thoroughly dismantled, then bubbled up to the forefront of your mind. His unspoken thoughts were unconsciously visible, as apparent as a neon sign: he was ignoring you but he didn't want you to know that.

“I cannot apologise enough for what has happened. This is unacceptable and our high standards have failed you. Your waitress will be dealt with, perhaps thorough retraining, and if necessary she will be dismissed.” He spoke directly to Gaster with an unpleasantly nasal voice, slighting your very presence.

You gave a curt cough into your napkin to draw his attention and to _politely_ show your utter fucking contempt for the ignorance. The manager glanced at you for a brief moment, then to Gaster, who curled his upper lip in distaste and gave a near imperceivable shake of the head.

“I think that you'll find that Doctor Gaster is not my keeper. As the person in question, it would be polite of you to adress me personally instead of deferring to whom you perceive as the ‘higher power’.” You beam, but it did not reach your eyes and it was in no way a genuine smile.

The manager’s stance shifted ever so slightly from one foot to the other. _He's afraid_ , you suddenly realise, drinking in his dower expression and nervous glances.

“Yes ma’am. No offence ma'am. Please, send us the dry-cleaning bill for the damaged clothes and we will happily reimburse you. For the trouble I've personally settled your entire bill, and if you decide to join us again I will heavily discount your next tab.”

The facade crumbled a little as you tried to think of what you should say next. You cough into the embroidered napkin again to buy a second or two.

_Quick, what would Gaster do?!_

_Aah, fuck whatever he would do. I need to do this my way!_

With a well practice Customer Service Smile™ you summon what remained of your exhausted courage and lean forward, elbows resting upon the table, fingers interlaced beneath your chin. You appeared rather nonchalant, if not for the bright smile that teetered upon the baring of fangs, and your words laced with enough sickly sweet venom to kill a man.

“That sounds... acceptable.” You began with a coquettish tilt of the head. “However my clothes were ruined beyond repair: they've been disposed of so unfortunately there will be no cleaning bill to reimburse. However, you can settle that with Doctor Gaster, who was forced to purchase something new so I wouldn't have to spend the rest of the day dressed so poorly. See to it that he is repaid.” You handed over one of Gasters business cards and the boutique receipt, the total of which you hadn't even peaked at.

Spying a rebuttal forming upon the manager’s tight lipped grimace, you cut him off.

“Your employee has been nothing but a delight this morning. She served us quickly, with a friendly attitude and never stopped smiling, and I think your establishment is all the more hospitable with her presence. If you dismiss her without due cause- especially over something as ridiculous as spilled drinks- my friend Mr. Martin Thomas, Employment Law at Benson & Benson, will certainly take on her case and I can say without a doubt that it will not end well for you.”

“I-I- Uh, of course ma'am. That was a silly suggestion on my behalf. We've never had any complaints about-”

“Indeed.” You flashed another bright lipstick smile. “I'm certain that the service will continue to the same standard that we have all enjoyed this morning.”

You eyed the manager, taking in his features once more: _A cocky smile so certain of a resolution, shoulders pushed back and heels forced together, such a prideful little thing._ _Most people in power, or anyone that held themselves in such high regard loved having their ego stroked._

It was rather easy to get what you wanted, if worded in just the right way. Now it was obvious why Gaster did it so often. _All it took was finding the weakness, the gap in the armour, the soft bruised spot, and then prodding until the skin split like overripe fruit._

Perhaps it was your own pride forcing you to persist against the difficulty, but something alluring and insidious deep within your chest wondered just how far you could push it...

“Our business may take some time so I assume we shall be here for several more hours, but I do hope that the pianist returns soon to ease the process. She seems so skilled! I can imagine it didn't take much persuading from you to get her to play at such a fine establishment.” You said with the utmost confidence, as if you hadn't just threatened the man, deeply enjoying the subtle reactions and changes in his body language.

_A small request disguised with compliments, for people were far more likely to be persuaded when it felt like they were doing you a favour._

“Of course!” He beamed immediately, “Lynette is the shining star amongst our entertainers. I'll summon her straight away.”

With that he left, heading directly towards the kitchen door.

You felt the stares of your table burning into the back of your head, and you gave a small embarrassed chuckle as you came back to your sense.

“Now with _that_ settled, let's get back to business.”

 

~

 

“I still don't understand why I have to sign this- What was it again? The non-disclosure thing?” you sighed, trying to massage away the hand cramps after signing so many other documents. “Besides the privacy of the children, what on earth could I possibly encounter that I'd have to keep secret?”

“Due to Dr. Gaster’s occupation, you may be subject to topics of a… sensitive nature. He often works from home, so there may be documents sitting around, confidential reports in offices, messages left on the home telephone, inadvertently overhearing conversations. That kind of thing.” London answered.

Gaster nodded in agreement, “Granted, this is a completely precautionary measure as you may never even stumble upon such things, but if there is ever anything which you find truly upsetting you can always come to myself to discuss it. However, if I am part of the problem you may always contact London or your Union representative for advice. Read the whistle blowing policy dictated on page 127, clause B, paragraph 2 for processes and the relevant contact details.”

“It isn't all vaguely terrifying secrets,” Martin chimed in between mouthfuls of complimentary honey and almond biscotti, “According to your contract you get perks like life insurance, full dental and medical coverage, contents insurance-”

“Contents insurance?” You look up, confused.

“Well, if you are employed as an au pair residing on my property, you'll need separate insurance to cover your own goods. They do not belong to me, therefore they will not be covered under my insurance. This will be provided as per the employment contract.”

“That actually makes sense. There's so much that I hadn't even thought of!” You huff, wondering what _else_ you could have possibly forgotten to prepare.

“I presume you currently don't own contents insurance?” The Doctor asked.

You sheepishly shook your head, and he gave you a thoroughly disappointed look.

“Hey, adulting is hard!” You defend.

“But in the meantime, the cover will be extended to your property, and when you inevitably move into the guest rooms the insurance will be extended to your spaces within my property.”

“Now, there are several liabilities we need to go over, up to and including emergency situations, a risk assessment of Gaster’s home, necessary first aid training-”

Despite London’s lovely voice, it all became droning noise at that point, and you were rather ashamed to admit that you had thoroughly checked out of the conversation. You only spoke to give approval and appropriate noises where necessary. You were too busy drinking your delicious coffee and listening to the pianist playing to pay attention to the boring fine print.

 

~

 

The hours had dragged on, but it seemed as if you had very little time to prepare for how awkward the car ride home would be.

You had swapped contact details with London and shook Martin's hand with forced enthusiasm, ready to spend the rest of your evening in a nice hot bubble bath with a large glass of wine. Your back hurt from sitting still for so long and the muscles in your writing arm were aching.

“So, that was awful.” You groaned, slumping back into the supple leather of the passenger seat.

“It certainly could have gone better, but at least you don't have to sign anything else for a while.” Gaster shrugged, lazily gripping the steering wheel despite the rush hour traffic signalling the end of everyone's work day. You were _so close_ to Newest Home, which meant you were that much closer to your bubble bath, and you were glad when the traffic had begun to thin towards the outskirts of the city.

“That was oddly empathetic of you.” You stifled a laugh, “But I would like to thank you for going out of your way to get me a change of clothes. I have literally never worn something so nice, and it probably costs more that my entire wardrobe.”

“That's what my assistant is for, but how you forced the manager's hand into paying for it was certainly entertaining.”

Your cheeks burned with a fierce blush of embarrassment and shame. You had _no_ idea what you were thinking, acting in such a way! You often pushed your petty back-and-forth with Gaster as far as it could go, but beyond that you had never done anything so manipulative and reckless.

Despite how effective, the results felt _tainted_ and you didn't want to do that again any time soon.

“Admittedly it looks very, hm, becoming. I'd much rather you wear something suitable, for the sake of practicality and your own peace of mind: you were so anxious about your previous attire that you ate half a basket of bread rolls.” Gaster’s mouth twisted in bemusement.

“They were delicious!” You protested, self consciously holding your hands across your stomach, not even noticing the compliments and approval he had bestowed upon you.

Revelling in the chance he had to needle you, he continued. “You looked like a little lost lamb surrounded by wolves, constantly slumping your posture whenever somebody passed by the table. It looked like you were trying to hide inside that hideous cardigan.”

“I couldn't help it, I felt like I didn't fit in. It's a very natural reaction, a basis of social interaction, in fact. Why do you care so much?” You asked, despite his voice betraying no emotion whatsoever.

“I don't.”

Your lips pursed, irritation pooling in your gut. “Despite the nice gesture, I'm still angry about how you were treating that waitress.”

The car pulled to a stop. You hadn't even noticed Gaster had pulled onto the gravely path in front of his home. He shut the car off, unbuckled his seat belt and turned to you.

“What was her name?” He asked.

“What was- who?” You stammer as your eyes open wide, the anger disappearing as quickly as it came.

“The waitress. You gave a heartfelt speech about being brethren within your social class, you made a show of playing her manager like a fiddle to get exactly what you wanted. If _you_ cared that much you would have at least remembered her name.”

“I…” Suddenly you were lost for words as you came to the stunning realisation that he was right.

“I don't know.” You finally admitted into the silence, and the small space of the car began to feel far too stifling. You unbuckled your own seatbelt, but for some unknown reason made no move to leave.

Gaster furrowed his brow, and after a tense pause asked, “Are you okay?”

You couldn't place how you were feeling: shame, perhaps? Fear? Something wasn't quite right but you didn't understand what.

“I think so.” You said.

“I doubt that.” Gaster hummed, and his words made your insides burn with hot, prideful anger.

_How could he possibly know you better than you knew yourself?!_

_But.. You didn't feel like you knew yourself anymore._

“I don't know whether it was the stress and  humiliation of the day, but you're not acting like yourself.” He spoke almost clinically, and you felt wretched for hoping that there would have been even a hint of care in his voice.

“Get some rest. I shall see you tomorrow.” He nodded, and exited the car.

You moved automatically, stepping onto the gravel to unlock your own vehicle. Gaster opened and closed the house’s front door without looking back.

 

~

 

You didn't want to admit how long you sat in front of your apartment building, barely recalling the drive home.

You simply stared out the front window, fingers worrying at the lace hem of your new blazer, thinking.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man, that ending turned out a little more angsty that I had originally planned, but who doesn't love a little bit of an identity crisis!?
> 
> Next chapter the adorable skele-bros will make another appearance!
> 
> Thanks for everyone's continued patience and support! It means the world to me :3 If you enjoyed this chapter; maybe come say hello over on [my Tumblr!](http://athenanuu.tumblr.com)


	11. * Snapshot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You talk out your problems with a trusted friend, and Doctor Gaster fumbles with modern technology. 
> 
> NSFW! Contains sexual content (sorta)

You sunk further into the soft pillows propped up against the head of your bed and stifled another yawn.

 

“Ugh,” You groaned, wiping at your eyes, “So tired. Need caffeine.”

 

“Why don't you go to sleep? You've been at this for a while now.” Dane asked from his position sprawled across the floor, legs kicked out with one foot almost tucked entirely beneath your bed frame. He never took his eyes from the videogame he battled against, slumping further into the threadbare beanbag the more he concentrated.

 

“I wanted you here to keep me awake so I'd be forced to finish this blog post! Gods, don't you listen to anything?” You snapped with much more force than intended, the words rushing out in a stream of it's before you could really stop them.

Dane fumbled for the right button to pause the game that, up until that very moment, had captured all of his attention all evening. He sat up, leaning with his elbows propped upon your bed sheets.

 

“Okay, what's wrong?” He asked. His tone was filled with concern, standing at odds with the totally-done-with-your-bullshit quirk of an eyebrow.

 

“Nothing.” You said, idly looking over the open document on your laptop screen but not really taking in the text. Secretly you felt ashamed of your words, but for some irksome reason pride kept you from immediately apologising. You were being stubborn and moody for the sake of it, and the day had left your emotions rattled and confused. It wasn't right of you to be taking it out on your friend. You just wanted a nice hot bath and a bottle of wine, not to upset your friend!

 

“This isn't the first time that you've made a shitty comment tonight, and you've been in a foul mood since you got home. Did something happen at work?”

 

“I was- but earlier- and then he…! Ugh!” You sighed heavily with frustration, pausing only to drop your hands by your sides and try to parse your feelings into words. “It's nothing you can help with really. Just somebody pointed something out about me and I'm feeling kinda messed up about it.”

 

“Story time?” Dane’s lips worked into a smile, and he looked far too pleased at the prospect of gossip.

 

“Only if you make me another peppermint coffee!” You bargained.

  
  


One bribe later you were both spread out on your bed, but Dane’s large frame left his toes hanging over the edge. You tried to give Dane the short version, but you inadvertently rambled for an hour to make sure you'd given every detail he asked for. The entire time you'd been working on a blog post and typing out the final draft: somehow, having some external force to concentrate on helped you to speak words that adequately described your feelings, as if it gave your other senses and whirring thoughts something to focus upon whilst the feeling side of your brain did all the work. It was satisfying to watch the word count grow, and relieving to get the tangle of emotions out into the open.

 

“And then I sat outside in my car for, Gods, I don't even know how long, maybe an hour? Just throwing myself a pity party because I'm basically a sad and confused old lady.”

 

“Right, okay. I think I got it.” Dane nodded to himself.

 

“You got another trademark Dane Wrap-Up for me?” You chuckled, but he only responded with a wiry smirk.

 

“Pretty much.”

You huffed, shoving some clutter aside to place your empty mug on your bedside table.

 

“I hate to break it to you, but it _was_ a shitty thing to do, though in the grand scheme of things it wasn't as terrible as your boss made out. It's not such a big deal because it's not as if you went into the situation with some ulterior motive, like seeking glory or praise or whatever, just in the heat of the moment finding out a name isn't such a big deal. It sometimes gives the wrong impression when you go on your typical passionate rants, but you were fighting for it because you got all wrapped up in your empathy. You're like, I dunno, a rabid dog; once you’ve found a path that works, you sink your teeth in and don't let it go until you get the situation that you want.”

You narrowed your eyes at the comparison, but Dane pretended to ignore you.

 

“I get why you're upset though, Gaster sure found the most dramatic way to put it. Maybe you both need a lesson on the basics in human compassion?”

 

“Uggghhhh, no.” You dropped your head back as you groaned, “That sounds like the worst idea ever.”

 

“See, in this situation you would say ‘No thank you, but I appreciate the offer.’” Dane nodded sagely.

 

“When did you get so good at giving advice?” You felt much lighter, and smiled with relief, “But you are still the worst, get out of my house.”

Dane checked the shiny silver watch around his wrist and pulled himself to his feet. “Well I need to go to sleep anyway. You finished your blog post?” He gestured to the laptop abandoned by your feet.

 

“Oh, yeah, that was done around the time I finished explaining how ridiculously amazing that steak tasted.”

 

“When you get your first pay cheque, you are definitely treating me to one.”

 

“That will be a much better way to apologise to you. Oh man, we are gunna eat so much meat.” You breathed out wistfully.

 

“I'll hold you to it!” He grinned, “First order of business: update your blog and advertise your upcoming live-stream before you sleep, and if you do that I'll bring up that new light fixture and back drop before you leave for work tomorrow.”

 

“What a lovely incentive,” You chuckled.

 

“To be fair, I have found positive reinforcement works best with you.” Dane did little to hide how much his grin had grown. “Maybe you could use them tomorrow and film something with the kids? Or, even better, use that as a reward if they do well at school this week!”

 

“Damn, great thinking! They can review their favourite toys, or open one the boxes I got last week? Oh, or maybe we could put a kit together!” You gasped, new ideas forming as quickly as you spoke. You used the sudden urge of inspiration to whip out your phone and type reminders for future reference.

 

“Update your blog, then think about it. I'll let myself out.”

You nodded, still typing up more detailed notes for fun activities you could do together. You'd have to get Gaster’s permission first, but you think that the boys would enjoy it.

 

“Hey, Dane?” You called out, eyes never moving from your phone screen.

 

“What?” He yelled. If the noises were anything to go by, he was loading the empty mugs into your sink.

 

“Thanks for your help, and- as always- for the coffee!”

 

His laughter echoed down the hallway.

“Any time. Goodnight!”

 

~

 

_Warm hands worked their way down your sides, nails digging ever so slightly into the soft, bare flesh of your hips._

_You gasped, squirming and writhing beneath the touch that sparked electricity along your skin. Soft fingertips worked their way to your stomach, ghosted across your breasts and caressed your hair. Too many hands to count but you were too busy panting with bliss to care._

_A deep voice rumbled in your ear and you moaned at that alone. You couldn't make out the words but you knew they were whispering wicked promises of things to come. Something hot and hard pressed between your legs and your hips instinctively bucked against it. A mouth captured your nipple and you whined, so torn between arching into the feeling and pulling away from the intensity of it. Hands held your wrists down, gripped at your ass, ran down the column of your throat, so much touch that it was over stimulating, but at the same time it was nowhere near enough._

 

_“Please!” You keened, nearly sobbing with need._

 

_Something prodded at your entrance as a hot tongue ran up the length of your neck. You couldn't take the waiting any longer. The tension and apprehension was burrowing beneath your skin and you squirmed all the harder._

 

“Gaster, please!”

  
  


Your eyes shot open, taking far too long to adjust to the heavy darkness of your bedroom. You were panting heavily and sweat had plastered your hair to your forehead. Arousal made your entire body prickle with delicious tingles, and you were so wet that the gusset of your pajama shorts were heavy and soaked. The dream had been so intense that in your sleep you had somehow worked a hand into your pants.

All of a sudden realisation dawned upon you, and as you recalled what and _whom_ you had been dreaming of, you blushed with a ferocity that you didn't know possible. You burned with embarrassment and shame and lust, wearing a contorted expression of cringing and need.

Swiftly you rolled onto your back and pulled your hand free of it's moist trapping, resting both arms innocently atop the covers. You stared quietly into the dark of night, eyes wide with concentration as you tried very, very hard not to dwell upon the lingering remnants of the dream.

  


“Fuck.”

 

~

You woke up once more, again with a sudden and unpleasant start, surprised to find a phone call making your entire bedside table vibrate and not your usual morning alarm.

 

6:45am

An unknown number.

 

You squinted at the screen. Telesales companies never called so early- after a year of working in the area you were also pretty sure there were heavily enforced laws regarding calling times- not to mention there weren't that many people with your phone number. Curiosity eventually won out and you jabbed the answer button.

 

“...Hello?” You asked with a great deal of hesitation.

 

“Oh good, you're awake.” Doctor Gaster said, and you could hear the smirk in his voice. The little shit knew he'd woken you up.

_Oh gods, what does he want now?_ You didn't know if you could face him so soon, but then sleepily realised that he had _no_ way of knowing about your dream and there was no way in hell that you'd admit to it. It was a strain, but you tried your best to sound very much awake and very much alert.

 

“Good morning, Dr. Gaster.”

 

“You sound guilty. What have you done now?”

You gulp and stammer half sentences.  

 

“I don't- I haven't done anything- why would I be guilty of some-”

 

He interrupted, “No, wait, I don't care. I have a favour to ask of you.”

You waited quietly and patiently for him to explain. Gaster still wasn't all that well versed in the typical conduct and pleasantries of social interaction. It came naturally to you, but you were slowly beginning to understand he just ran on a different wavelength than what you were used to, so you pushed yourself to be patient when it came to social differences. Or maybe he understood completely and simply didn't care.

_At least he wasn't being a colossal dick when you were half-asleep, which was always a bonus. He was just being... a minor dick; a less than usual amount of dickishness for Gaster._

The silence stretched on as you waited.

 

“Well?” He asked expectantly.

 

“‘Well’ what?” You wiped the sleep from your eyes, thoroughly confused by his behaviour and your multiple surprise starts to the day. Again you found yourself blushing at the thought of your dream. The details were fuzzy now that you were fully conscious but you knew you'd woken yourself up by moaning his name. _Oh the indignity._

 

“This is the part where you say ‘yes’ or ‘no’.” Gaster explained, with that patronising tone of voice he used exclusively for those he found stupid.

 

“I honestly thought you'd just go ahead and demand something of me.” You said.

 

“You were the one who told me to brush up on my ‘people skills’!”

 

“Okay, fine, you're right, but if you start Harvard referencing your sources for small-talk ideas or the perfect way to end a conversation, I won't help you.”

 

“That happened once after you admitted you were curious as to why I’d put together a binder of conversation starters for our meal out with the children next week.”

 

“I _know_ I instigated that conversation, but I didn't expect you to dictate the bloody bibliography! Again, it was a conversation starter. Why don't you add that to your bloody binder!”

Gaster gave a curt cough over the phone.

 

“Okay, admittedly I had gotten a little carried away with my research, but I'm trying. Shall I start again?”

 

“Sure.” You gave a reluctant huff, too tired to put up much of a fight.

 

And he hung up.  


You stared at your phone in disbelief, watching as the idle screen turned black.

 

“Oh well.” You shrugged, pulling yourself out of bed to get a (very) early start on your usual morning routines.

You made it halfway through brushing your teeth when your phone started to vibrate atop the toilet cistern. The vibrations caused an awful sound of rattling, humming ceramic to echo throughout the small bathroom.

 

“Fuck!” You shouted in surprise, spraying minty foam across the mirror hanging from the wall in front of you. Quick to pick up the phone before it vibrated itself into the toilet bowl, you spat out the remaining toothpaste, but not before you left splotches of green all over the linoleum. _Ugh, you'd have to clean that up before it hardened. You didn't want to spend the evening scraping petrified toothpaste from the floor._ You wiped your mouth upon the back of your hand, not even bothering to check the caller ID before answering.

 

“Good morning, Doctor.”

 

“Good morrow. I hope the day finds you well, faithful employee.” Gaster chirped.

You'd never heard such niceties from him, and you couldn't help but burst into hysterics. The cognitive dissonance between your knowledge of Gaster’s usual attitudes and whatever the fuck you had just experienced caused you so much shock that you could only process it with more laughter. At least you had the decency to hold the phone away from your mouth as you doubled over so Gaster’s phone speaker didn't peak and crackle from the noise of your wheezing.

 

“Gaster? Oh my gods, Gaster! What the literal fuck was that?” You finally asked, alternating between gasping for air and trying your hardest to hold in further giggles.

 

“Pleasantries!” He defended adamantly, utterly offended by your reaction.

 

“What is this, medieval London?” Your eyes began to leak tears as you unsuccessfully tried to hold it all in. It was too much; a damn of cardboard holding back a flooded reservoir. You let out a whine as some laughter spilled out. It would be unprofessional of you if you didn't at least _try_ not to humiliate your boss, but it was so damn hard.

 

“I'll have you know that the written language and spoken dialects of the Anglo-Saxons in 10th Century London are far diff-”

 

“Hey, Gaster?”

 

A beat of silence before he half growled down the phone, “What?”

 

“Just a question in general: do you take constructive criticism?”

 

“You utter fool! You plebeian shit! Of course I do: all of my published journals and research documents are peer reviewed! That is literally the point of-!”

 

“Okay, because I have some advice.”

 

“Well, you'd best keep it to yourself because you wouldn't know the first thing about medieval-”

You stopped listening, experience having taught you that once Gaster boarded the Rant Train there was no turning back, so instead your returned to brushing your teeth. By the time you'd finished wiping the remnants from the floor, washing your face and combing your hair, you could tell his vitriolic trumpeting was coming to an end.

 

“-not to mention I don't give a single shit which imaginary online university awarded you a degree in, I don't even know which _soft_ fucking science-” The word fell from his mouth with the most utter contempt that he could physically muster.

 

You interrupted his rant to pleasantly chime in, “Actually I went to a local university.”

 

Again he stopped short, stunned, letting out a small and quiet, “Oh.”

 

“Yeah. ‘Got a degree in accounting.”

 

“How thoroughly practical of you.” He said, apparently still struck dumb by the news.

 

“Yep, it was boring, but I guess it's hard to make that stand out amongst all of the actually awesome stuff I've got on my resume.” You half wished you were having the conversation face-to-face just so he could see- and probably hate- the cheesy grin you found yourself wearing. “Anyway, my stellar achievements aside, how can I help you?”

 

“Oh thank gods, I thought you'd never shut up; always bragging, always in constant need of approval. It's sickening.”

 

“Yes Gaster, isn't it just the worst?” You asked rhetorically, rolling your eyes before trying to ask once more, “What do you want from me?”

A pause. He was clearly gathering up his pride; you could tell by the indicative hiss of breath through his teeth.

 

“I require your area of, ahem, ‘expertise’.” He said, and you almost physically felt how much it pained him to word it that way. “Technologically speaking.”

 

“Don’t you have decades of experience with Monster and Human tech? You built the damn Core!”

 

“Well, of course!” He bolstered, “But for the technology of lesser folks-” He began. You were pretty sure you knew where this was heading, so cut him off.

 

“If you need me to explain how to restart the Wi-Fi router again, I'm going to drive there right now and kick your ass.”

 

~

 

“And, and, and then Red, the Italian Plumbing Brothers Incorporated brother in the red suit was all KAPOW, and then BOMPH, and a little like this!” Papyrus exclaimed, karate chopping his way around the living room. “And Turtle-Saurus was all ‘Noooo!’ and he flew up into the air!”

 

“That sounds much more exciting than the video games I remember, they were mostly about jumping.” You shrugged, hands clasped securely around your coffee cup in the event of a rampant Skeleton child chopping his way too close for comfort within your personal vicinity.

Papyrus stopped his martial arts display with a delighted gasp.

 

“You mean the _vintage_ games?” He asked, words weighted with reverence.

 

You chuckled and nodded, “Sure, why not. I guess technically they'd be classed as vintage now.”

 

Sans hummed in agreement without looking up from his phone, though his growing grin told you _something_ was coming, “Most classifications use ‘vintage’ for things over 20 years old, though some say ‘true vintage’ is over 50. ‘Antique’ is over 100. Like my dad.”

Though you found the punchline quite amusing, you thought it best not to laugh and encourage the boys.

 

Papyrus snickered, “That's ANCIENT!”

 

“Despite being a fossil,” _Shit, higher moral standards didn't last very long,_ “your dad is very good to you boys, so be nice. One day, when you get to older, in sure you'll realise how much that experience matters.” _Phew, saved it._

 

“That was truly the sickest of burns.” Gaster rumbled from the doorframe, throwing an acidic look in your direction.

The skeleboys cringed, and Papyrus let out an undignified screech of discontent. You rubbed at your temples.

 

“Don’t. Don't do that.” Sans shuddered and waved a bony finger at his father. “Stick to your old man lingo, it's a lot less disturbing.”

 

“Duly noted.” Gaster said with a smile, revelling in his children's discomfort. Being on the other side of the equation, you could now understand why your parents used to say similar things when you were younger. Back then it was downright disturbing to witness, but now you could appreciate the small source of entertainment at the younger generation’s expense.

 

“Don't worry, boys, I'll save your father from himself, but for now it's time to get ready: the bus will be at the gate soon, and I don't want you to miss it. Papyrus, go grab your shoes and I'll help you with the laces. Sans, could you fetch the lunches from the fridge?” You hopped up from the chair and downed the last of your coffee.

The next several minutes blurred by in a rush of movement, you helped Papyrus with his shoes, straightened Sans’ school blazer, checked that they each had their bags, books, homework and lunches, and made sure to watch them board the bus just outside of Newest Home’s main front gate. Tiny skeleton hands wave goodbye through the tinted bus windows, and as soon as the vehicle was out of sight you turned and marched right back to the house.

 

~

 

“Your phone?” You asked skeptically and leaned forward with your elbows on the dining table.

 

“Yes, there was an… accident with the previous one and it was destroyed beyond repair. Quite timely, for it was an older, out of date model. With this updated one I can use the camera and enjoy a larger inventory space in the dimensional box.”

 

_Gaster probably did something dumb and didn't want to admit what had broken the old phone._

 

“Your old one didn't have a camera? How old was that thing?”

He looked down at you, eyes narrowed in disdain. _Clearly the wrong detail to focus on._

 

“What storage size is that one?” You asked instead, glancing down to the smartphone in his hands.

 

“A terabyte, but three separate boxes with up to 15 kilos of capacity in each.”

 

“That's prett good- Wait, what? Is that a magic thing?”

He didn't say a word, simply demonstrated. His phone screen dimmed as he pressed several buttons, and a projected hologram screen flickered to life. He selected ‘Pen Set’ from the list and it appeared in his hand. You tentatively reached to his outstretched palm, and your fingertips grazed along the sleek wooden box the the pen set. It was real, not a hologram.

 

“That.. that's impossible? What the actual fuck?” Your mouth opened and closed several more times, too many questions burning in your throat. “How is that actually possible?”

 

“Magic and coding.” The Doctor nodded, not offering further explanation.

 

“Do humans know about this?” Your mood suddenly turned very serious.

 

“Some, and then it is only vaguely. You yourself should know Monster technologies aren't very well integrated amongst the populace, despite the fact that one very large specimen powers the entire city. These are only available at key Monster retailers.” He shrugged. “Besides, if a human happened upon a monster phone it would function as no more than a regular cellular device: they lack the necessary magic to even use the menu screen.”

 

“ _Most_ humans!” You remind him sharply, “And even if we couldn't, I know that far too many humans will kill to get their hands on that tech. Please tell me Asgore has already done damage control.”

 

“I don’t understand? He never viewed it as an issue.”

 

“You know humans can be ruthless when it comes to money-making. I swear to the Gods old and new; he needs to get off his royal behind and employ a human-monster relations expert to keep him in the know of things like this.”

 

“Abandoning your post here so soon?” He crooned, a nasty smirk on his face.

 

You hushed him. “Please, just tell him. It's dangerous to go showing off, and lack of magic isn't a long term firewall. You know the bad apples in the Magus Faction would _literally_ kill to get their hands on it. The potential for misuse is too great. Weapons, bombs, anything could be hidden in there and it could all pass a security check because on the outside it's just a phone!"

 

“Noted. I'll mention it at the next council meeting to see if safeguards can be set in place.” He placed the pen set back into the list, and closed down the hologram.

 

“Good, good.” You smooth down your hair with your hands, glancing over to the wall clock. “But what problem could you possibly be having with monster tech that I'd be able to help with?”

 

“The camera appears to be broken. I tried to take a picture of the boys, but the image was distorted. I dismantled the lenses but everything appears to be in working order.” The Doctor handed the phone across, showing the picture in question.

An image of the boy infront of the fireplace, hands clasped together. Sans' uniform was dishevelled, and Papyrus looked so happy you could tell he was having difficulties keeping still long enough for just one picture. Their skulls were much rounder than usual, with cute shiny eyes taking up the majority of their faces. You snorted.

 

“Oh my Goddess, that's adorable.”

 

Without even trying to be stealthy you snapped a picture of Gaster, his confused expression distorted by the same filter. For good measure, you sent it to your phone number and showed Gaster the controls.

 

“It's a novelty filter. They use facial tracking software to distort the image in different shapes or tones. It's powerful enough to make a video too. They’ve been around for a while, but if your old phone was so out of date that it didn't even have a rudimentary camera, I'm not surprised that you're unfamiliar. You must have accidentally swiped to activate it, and the menu is ridiculously discrete but I've disabled it for now. Just click this button, and scroll through if you ever want to find them again.”

 

“I do not wish to be depicted as a snowman nor a, what's that, a cartoon character? I doubt that will change in the near future.” He deleted the picture of himself, and rolled his eyes when he noticed the outgoing message to yourself.

 

“Consider it blackmail material.” You explained with a sweet smile.

 

“Doesn't this play usually act out with pictures of an indecent sexual manner?” Gaster intoned, tucking his phone away.

 

“I mean, if you're willing to provide me with those too, I won't turn them down.” You gave him a cheshire cat grin and flustered, he stomped away, leaving you alone in the kitchen. From your vantage point you could see his hasty retreat up the stairs, and the furious violet blush clinging across his face.

Not sure of what to make of his expression you turned to wash the cups and plates from breakfast.

 

~

 

You settled into the sofa with another steaming mug of coffee, phone handy to write up the boys’ itinerary for the week when a new message flashed up on screen.

  


**Dr. Gaster:**

**[1 IMG Attached]**

 

Another message appeared less than a second later.

 

**Dr. Gaster:**

**If you decide to resort to blackmail, just know I'm not beyond playing dirty either.**

  


You froze, heart pounding in your chest. He… he had to know what that sounded like, _right? Right??_ There was no way he'd be so ignorant of the tone, especially considering the conversation he had abruptly fled from.

You checked the data and information first. The picture was time stamped several minutes prior, when you were both talking in the kitchen. With a little hesitation you opened the image, bracing yourself.

A close up picture of you in profile, smiling softly at something hidden out of the shot. The corners of your lids were wrinkling, the shine of your eyes were enhanced by the filter, and a broad stripe of white was painted down your nose, ending in a smudge of brown at the tip. Small but detailed deer antlers protruded from your hairline, and above your head a cute, bubbly pink font read “Oh deer!”

You didn't know how he had taken the picture without your knowledge, but the fact that he had done it for counter blackmail made you smile. A strange fluttering feeling in your chest _almost_ made up for your disappointment that it hadn't, in fact, been a dick-pic.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OwO What's this? 
> 
> An update! 
> 
> Some lovely comments recently gave me super duper ultra motivation, and I finished this chapter and even planned out the next. I've also been chatting to Lavender-chan, who has made a fic inspired by this one! It's the first time this has happened to me and it's so sweet that I could cry ;3;
> 
> Go check out [Adventures of A SkeleNanny](archiveofourown.org/works/15741384/chapters/36602607) for more Gaster/Nanny!Reader goodness :3c
> 
>  
> 
> Whilst waiting for update on LITDH come ask questions, give feedback, or just drop in to say hi over on [My AthenaNuu Tumblr!](athenanuu.tumblr.com)


	12. Dangers and Dangerous Thoughts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe things aren't so perfect?  
> Maybe Gaster shouldn't think so much?
> 
> Dangers and dangerous thoughts lurk around the corner.

“Did you get the-” You call over your shoulder, hand Papyrus his baseball cap and shove his pencil case into his bag. Your multitasking was going quite well that morning, only for it to be interrupted by Sans appearing from thin air. You jolted and gasped at the sudden movement by the front door.

 

“Yep!” He said, giving a lopsided grin and holding up the small plastic lunch boxes you were just about to ask him to fetch from the fridge.

 

When he had first displayed that particular talent it had understandably taken you by surprise. You had brewed a tiny pot of tea for Papyrus, intending to set up a little tea party whilst Sans completed his extra credit homework. Just as you had picked up the sugar bowl Sans had appeared without warning, an empty space in the kitchen one second, and the next he was by your side. You had let out an- embarrassing, now that you were looking back on it- instant squawk and dropped the sugar bowl. To his credit Sans had apologised and helped you clean up the mess but that hadn't stopped his father enforcing tighter regulations on magic use in the household. On your hands and knees you swept up the tiny shards of ceramic whilst Sans vacuumed the sugar, and you told him he was still able to practice outside in the garden, but given the amount of unassuming antique pieces in the house there were only so many ceramics that you could afford to drop. You had both laughed and joked as you cleaned, and left the floor tiles spotless.

  
  


“Hey, you know the rule about teleporting in the house!” You shook your head and deposited the lunches in their respective backpacks. “But thank you, we're on a tight schedule.” 

 

Sans shrugged on his pack on and nodded reluctantly.

 

“I know, I know. ‘Emergencies only’. ‘sides, it's not teleporting.” He pouted, but perked up a little when his father offered no comment. Apparently the offense didn't warrant a lecture.

 

“Don’t be cheeky. Shortcuts, teleporting, magic portals, space time continuum shenanigans. it's all the same thing.” You waved a hand dismissively and pulled his beat up cap from the coat hook.

 

“It's ridiculously sunny out today so make sure to wear these during your breaks. I don't care if the school board says it's not part of the uniform, you’ll overheat without them, and I'll write another dang letter if I have to. Oh, and bring them home, clip them to your bag strap so you don't forget.”

 

“OKAY!” Papyrus beamed as he took a running jump at his father. Gaster caught him around the middle and pulled him close, peppering noisy kisses across his son’s skull. You took a sneaky picture as Papyrus cackled with delight, trying to wiggle away.

 

 _Oohh, an ugly pixelated filter._ _Perfect!_

 

“Be good for Headmistress Dreemurr and the examination official. They'll have my hide if you can't sit still for your exam today.” Gaster stooped to put Papyrus down. The boy charged at you, his bony skull clashing into your stomach.

 

“Oof! I'm glad you're excited.’ You said as you hugged him in return. “I know it can be difficult and kinda boring to sit and concentrate for so long, but you've got a little extra time if you need to take a break. Just quietly let the examiner know.”

 

You smiled as he wriggled out of your grasp. “You'll breeze straight through it.”

 

Gaster turned to his oldest son and pulled him into a hug. The Doctor’s low voice barely carried through the wide hallway.

 

“You'll do fine today; you've done plenty of revision and you know what to expect. Give it your best effort, and the results will speak for themselves.” 

 

Sans nodded into his father's stomach and stepped away to give you a fleeting hug. You gently patted his back to try and soothe some of his anxieties, and straightened his cap as he pulled away.

 

“Time to go, I don't want you to miss that bus.” You glanced at your phone’s clock. “Good luck!”

 

“We're gunna do GREAT!” Papyrus hollered and sped out of the open door in a tiny blur of black and white. Sans waved to you both and followed behind at a much more leisurely pace. Papyrus stopped to look back, and jogged in place as Sans meandered along. When his brother finally caught up, they wordlessly linked hands.

 

“Sans, make sure to watch your brother on the way home. I know the stop is just outside the community gate and Guard Dogg will be looking out for you, but I'll be driving back from an appointment so I won't be able to meet you off the bus.” You called.

 

“Got it. See ya later!” He shouted from the end of the gravel driveway.

  
  


You waited until they were out of sight beyond the unused gatehouse to finally close the front door. You dropped your head back and gave a great sigh of relief. 

 

“Thank fuck it's the last day of exams and thank fuck it's Friday! I'm stressed up to my eyeballs! If I feel like this, I can't imagine how stressful this is for the kids. Who thought it was a good idea to have exams when the school year starts? Surely you wait until the end?”

 

You groaned and made your way to the kitchen, with Gaster following closely behind.

 

“They're on an advanced track course, so there is a certain expectation that they've been allotting study time throughout the summer. The tests are to gauge their attainment levels as they enter a new year, and the syllabus is tailored accordingly.” 

 

“Right, that makes sense: prodigies and all that. Still, quite a stressful time of year, regardless of how much they've crammed in over the holidays.” 

 

“They're handling it well. A thorough study routine, reassurance in their skills, and practicing on previous exam papers has helped calm them immensely.” Gaster intoned, confident in his children’s abilities. 

 

“Yeah. I guess if they're aware of what's to come, they'll be prepared.” You took a seat at the dining table-  _ your _ seat apparently, though you couldn't begin to guess when, exactly, it was designated as  _ yours.  _ It just… happened, over the course of the week the family had migrated into their preferred seats at the table, on the sofa, in the garden, and you just happened to take up the extra spaces. You slotted quite nicely between Sans and Papyrus on the sofa, your space next to Gaster on the wooden bench by the back door was precarious at best but he never commented on it, and you settled into  _ your _ seat directly across his at the kitchen table.

 

You looked up to find Gaster almost looming over you with his hand held out. He cleared his throat and gestured with his palm.

 

“Man, you look like shit. I bet you stayed up all night working again, didn't you?” You chuckled and pulled a small round candy drop from your pocket. “Here, don't overwork yourself.” You places it gently in his palm. 

 

He quirked a brow, the thin, pale scars trisecting his face wrinkling with amusement. He unwrapped and ate the candy, held up two fingers, and showed his palm out again. 

 

“Oh shit, you've got to be kidding me?” Your voice dropping to a petulant moan when the pieces clicked into place.

 

He held up three fingers and gave a wicked, broad smile. 

 

“Fine, fine. You win!” You huffed, digging into your back pocket to pull out a small wad  of notes. You stuffed them into his hand, and he swiftly deposited them into the second, half full swear jar on the kitchen worktop. 

 

“That money better be put to good use.”

 

You pulled out your phone and double checked the weekly schedule. A rare day free of extra-curricular activity due to the stress of the final exams, which left you time to work on your own projects. You replied to an email and several cute comments left on your latest video, and edited another blog post. A shadow looked over you once more and a steaming cup of coffee was placed in front of you.  _ The purple mug with the cats in top hats,  _ you mused,  _ also yours, apparently.  _ You watched Gaster take his seat across from yours, swallow the healing candy whole so he could sip coffee from a “World’s #1 Dad” mug. 

 

_ Click!  _

 

You tried not to laugh as you took a picture, and his eyes squinted with loathing. As had become habit over the last few days, you slapped a gaudy sepia toned filter on top and sent the image to him. His phone chimed from its place in his jacket pocket but he made a point of ignoring it, instead staring out the window to gaze upon the scenery.

 

You update your daily to-do list, specifically making a note to bug Gaster some more before supper. Your phone vibrated in your hand.

 

**Dr. Gaster:**

**[1 IMG Attached]**

  
  


A picture of you framed by the open door, waving to Sans and Papyrus. A hideous filter on top that made the entire image look like a poorly drawn black and white sketch. You snort, spilling coffee over the table.

 

“Oh my gods, that's hideous!” You laugh, and even Gaster gave a wry smile. “Okay, the stakes are raising, huh? I'll be in guard next time, I swear.”

  
  


You had taken to stealthily snapping pictures whenever you could, using any opportunity in Gaster’s slipping attention to take worse and worse pictures. Unfortunately he had been firing back at a similar rate, but you'd never been able to catch him in the act of taking the pictures that filled your inbox. 

 

Filled with determination to annoy him, you sent him a picture that had been taken the day before as he ascended the stairs to his office. The image was covered with a vignette so thick that a black gradient frame distorted most of the image, the only clear part centering right on his butt in the middle of the picture. His phone chimed again as it arrived, and you watched with great anticipation as he finally deigned your messages suitable for a glance. 

 

He stiffened and a solid blush crept along his nose. 

 

“Guerilla warfare!” You laughed, throwing out jazz hands for impact.

 

“Why?” He asked and set his phone on the table. “Why are you like this? Were you dropped as a child? Please tell me you were dropped from a great height as a young infant.” 

 

“Look, it's bribery time. I'm gunna blackmail you up a notch. Prepare yourself for sweet, sweet extortion. If you agree to let me do a livestream with the boys this evening, I'll delete the pictures. If not I'll set up a Tweeter account that automatically uploads one picture for each day that you refuse, tagged for the entire world to see.” You smirk with a satisfied smugness.

 

“You look like a cat that thinks it's been left unattended with an open tin of tuna. My answer is no, absolutely not.” Gaster’s lips tugged into a tight line, expression suddenly serious.

 

“Aww, c’mon! It'll be great stress relief after all that exhausting studying. It's a good way to get rid of that pent up energy, not to mention it will acclimate them to new types of social interactions.” You press the point, very eager to get him to agree. It was such an exciting prospect and you intended to carry it out one way or another, but obviously you wouldn't cross the line and do it without his approval. However, the Doctor’s sudden refusal had you concerned. He didn't answer and simply shook his head.

 

“What's wrong?” Your smug energy disappeared and was replaced with genuine worry.

 

“There are too many security risks. I suppose it's about time we had this conversation.”

 

The muscles in your shoulders tightened. You hadn't really thought about that side of Gaster’s illustrious position. You nod for him to continue and hold your mug closer. 

 

“I'm sure you're not so dense that you can't figure out why the boys require protection. After all, they are growing up in a rather precarious position. I do not wish to stifle their childhoods with guards and curfews, and I wish for them to explore their truest potentials, but my entire Soul burns with the need to defend and protect them.” 

 

You'd never heard Gaster speak so gravely, but the more you thought, the harder you were hit with the realisation. You hadn't really noticed his constant safeguards: intensive background checks on potential nannies, close relationships with school staff and board members, maintaining personal boundaries but keeping them safe from all angles. 

 

“Yeah,” You finally give him a sad smile, and a moment of understanding passed between the pair of you, “I understand. It's quite an overwhelming feeling, isn't it?”

 

His posture softened and he leaned back against the chair frame. “It is reassuring that you feel the same way. Or similarly, at the very least: I doubt the intensity is quite matched.” 

 

That made you laugh out loud, “This isn't a dick measuring contest to see who loves the kids more. Damn, it's been a week and I know I’d do anything for them. More than just ‘It's my job’. Kinda makes my chest hurt.” You said, absentmindedly rubbing that sore spot near your heart.

 

Gaster studied your movements and slightly tilted his head, “Interesting. Very interesting.” 

 

“So there are potential threats. Is- have there been any attempts- I don't know what I'm trying to say.” You ramble, feeling rather frazzled at the fact you'd overlooked such a dangerous aspect of their lives. “Shit, should I meet them from the bus stop? They'll be unattended. I know Sans relentlessly will look out for his brother, but all it takes is a split second when they're not paying attention. Ah shit, I'll rearrange my dental appointment and meet them at the gate.”

 

The Doctor took a long sip of his coffee. 

 

“Has something happened in the past?” You frown, typing away at your phone to rearrange your consultation.  _ Thank the gods for your health practitioner’s online services. No need to speak to someone over the phone. _

 

Gaster remained silent, which didn't bode very well for your fraying nerves.

 

“Don't keep me in the dark about this.” As soon as you sensed Gaster’s apprehension you gave a stern finger wag. “The more I know, the better equipped I am to deal with and prevent incidents in the future.” 

 

“Of course.” He gave a curt nod, “Due to the nature of my work and the notoriety of my position I have amassed enemies. They breed with jealousy, greed, and entitlement, and wish to strike out to spite and hurt me. Some want the money, some want the power they think I hold, and some want an influence to sway said power in their favour. Their motives are distasteful and vindictive. These individuals have, quite luckily, not formed a collective but on their own they still pose a threat.

 

There have been no attempts made against Papyrus nor Sans’ lives, for a ransom or otherwise, but there have been several incidents. I keep a close eye on one specific individual that could have posed a direct threat. Another was neutralized, and the Royal Guard and police force remain on standby. These forces also protect the King and Queen’s child, and anyone else who remains vulnerable to attack simply because of their guardian's position. As your employer, and due to the close relationship that grows between us all, I'd say you fall under the very same protection.” 

 

The mug felt cold in your hands but you still clung tightly to it. Your fingernails scraped the glazed ceramic as you flinched.

 

“Me?” Your voice grew squeaky, eyes open wide in shock. “But I'm not a kid! I can defend myself.” 

 

“You have no training, and you lack the genetic predisposition to defend yourself against magical attacks.” 

 

“Magical attack? There's no way Monsters are threaten anyone- no. Oh no. The Magus Faction are against you? Yikes, what did you do?!”

 

“They see my research as an affront against nature. They deem my work ‘playing god’. Few know the details, so rumour and speculation run wild and unchecked. I have enemies with information so incorrect that, even if they had access or influence over me, they would gain nothing from it. Yet they still believe I can change their world, for better or worse. Perhaps they are correct, but they wish to destroy everything I have built, which is an attack against science itself.”

 

You nod, trying to process all the new information, trying to find a way that secured  your safety. 

 

“Right. So a bunch a crazy magic users. That's not too bad. There are so many governmental restrictions on them, not to mention the Royal Guard closely monitors their every move.” You say positively, “Guns, weapons, that's hard-core, but Soul attacks and magic? I'm a Perseverance type. Even if the magic gene normally associated with purples never developed, I have natural defences. I can work with that!”

 

Gaster’s purple eyes were bright and intense as they stared right at you, “In the not so distant past I have been personally targeted and attacked. Their information regarding my magic is always incorrect, so the only way I gain the upper hand is because they underestimate me. However, that does not mean I am invulnerable.”

 

“Are… are you okay?” You asked, voice dropped to a near whisper. 

 

He gently touched the scar that sliced neatly across cheek and gave a sad smile. “They say time heals all wounds. Physically yes, but there are still days when the worry is too great to handle. They will sink to the level of threatening children, therefore I do not doubt they will see you as an easy target as soon as they are aware of your connection to me and my family.” 

 

You sheepishly looked away, trying not to stare at the uncomfortable reminders of the attack. Unsure of what to do under the intensity of his gaze and the newfound danger of your job, you slumped forward. You think about the protection in place for the children and yourself, and the faceless enemies who could threaten your very life.  _ Would they try to track you down? _

 

“I'll probably sleep better knowing someone's watching out for me, just in case. Regardless, I'll defend Sans and Papyrus. Their wellbeing is my goal.” You give a sure nod.

 

“I haven't posted anything on social media about accepting this new job, and I've got firewalls and a secure VPN so my location can't be tracked. When I stream I've got an a proxy system setup, so it's kinda untraceable. It's safe, no one will know unless they see us in person, and even then it's not concrete evidence.

 

Unfortunately, I had to learn about these services the hard way: in the past there were a couple of overzealous fans that somehow found my address. There are restraining orders in effect, and stronger security immensely helps to avoid strangers unashamedly turning up at my door. I've moved homes since and haven't had any other incidents besides trolls and grumpy parents who don't understand the content.” 

 

All of a sudden the coffee tasted weird, as if the turn in conversation made it almost too bitter to swallow.

 

“Life seems to run in strange parallels, does it not? How did you put it, these ‘crazy stalkers’ do find a way to insert themselves into the lives of their attachment.” Gaster hummed as he thought and set his cold mug aside. “You already have precautions in place to halt trackers with rudimentary knowledge and tools, but those few who are determined to punch a hole in the wall with find a way through.” 

 

“There are only so many pieces of software and services I can afford. It's as secure as it gets with my current funds.” You gesture wildly. “You have to realise you're in a rather privileged position, as very few people have the access to kind of money you do.”

 

A spark of clarity lit up the gentle lilac of his eyes, “Ah. If that was all that was holding back your complete security and peace of mind, I can change that.” 

 

He swiftly typed away at his phone. From the angle, you couldn't see the screen but could only guess that he was that he was advancing your pay date.

 

Silence settled across the kitchen for a few tense minutes. You gazed out into the garden, prompting you to make a note to call the gardener to check on the brown, dry plants.  _ Hopefully they will heal with the next autumnal shower. Maybe there was no hope, with winter just around the corner. _

 

“The funds are now available to you. Write it off as a grant, and your usual pay date will remain at the end of the month. Upgrade your services on all devices to the maximum, and buy a new phone. That one is quite frankly disgusting and it pains me to look at it.”

 

Rather dumbstruck you could only nod.  _ Holy shit. _

 

“I shall set aside the work that I had planned for this weekend to write up code that should allow total protection. If you abide by my directions I will allow the boys to partake in this ‘livestream’.”

 

You grin and hiss victoriously through your teeth, “Yes! They're gunna be so excited!” 

 

“Ground rules.” He cut off your happy wriggling. You sit up straight and give a professional nod.

 

“Right, rules. Lay it on me.” 

 

“You must have the previously mentioned security measures in place by Monday. The activity will take place next Tuesday evening when Sans and Papyrus have free time, with no disruption to their study schedule or meal times. You must connect to the secure internet connection that I maintain for work, which is separate from the household’s broadband. The activity will last no longer than an hour, and you have to wash and dry the dishes after our evening meal.” Gaster gestured as if he had laid out a hand of cards on the table. 

 

“Yes, yes, of course, yes, and I do it anyway so that's not really a price to pay.” You smiled sweetly and resist the temptation to snap a picture of his amused smirk. 

 

“I usually have a chat function running alongside the stream, so I can interact with followers and they can all talk to one another. I have commendable moderators in place who will ban and cut off access to individuals at the first sign of non-compliance with my rules. It’s the usual stuff, like no swearing, vulgar language, no links because it could be malware. Worst case scenario, as soon as I see things are getting out of hand, or if something upsets the boys, I'll shut the entire thing down. I don't want a few foul people to ruin their fun, but I don't want to risk waiting it out.” 

 

Even though your desires and plans were genuine, and you absolutely detested the idea of spouting exactly what he wanted to hear for the sake of appeasement, apparently that was the right thing to say. Gaster offered a rare, genuine smile. Your stomach flipped and you had to hold yourself back from grinning like an idiot. It was certainly a light end to a serious conversation, but you couldn't stop the strange bubbling in your chest as you shook hands to seal the deal.

 

~ 

 

After an hour of pottering around the house to tidy up the mess the boys had created during the frantic morning routine, you finally sat back to look over your hard work. A spotless kitchen, cereal dishes and cutlery washed, dried and stored away, a load of laundry in the washing machine, the boys rooms were tidied and the living room was free of clutter. The house was back to normal.  _ Finally _ ! You filled up the fancy copper kettle and rinsed out your usual mug.

 

You checked the clock in the kitchen and tried to organise the tasks that needed to be completed before the boys came back. You had to go home, record an unboxing video and start editing it, go to a dentist appointment, come back and spend the evening with the kids. It was a logistical nightmare to drive back and forth several times, especially considering you were feeling particularly lazy today you needed time to regain your energy. You thought of the equipment stored in the boot of your car: a spare camera, a charged battery pack and case of empty SD cards, a tripod, and a lightweight lighting rig. You had used them to film a collaboration video with another blogger in the comfort of their new, empty studio, but you had yet to take it all out to properly store it at home. You also had a hoard of unopened toy boxes you had picked up from the postal depot that very morning. 

 

With an idea in mind, you made two cups of coffee and trekked up the freshly vacuumed stairs. Feeling clammy and gross with your clothes sticking to your skin, you made a pit stop in your bedroom-  _ uhh, the room intended for the au pair. Fuck, fine! Your room _ \- and changed out of your sweaty work outfit into a plain tank top and shorts that you had stashed away in your large worn bag. The shorts were a little longer than you would have liked given the weather, but after all, you wanted to maintain  _ some _ professional wardrobe credentials. Combining your thorough cleaning of the house and the unusual autumn weather, you felt instantly cooler in some clean clothes, even if they were skimpier than intended. In your defense, there was no set uniform, you were technically off the clock, and if Gaster had any comments you were certain he would voice them. You were hardly indecent, but you were still a little concerned. Part of you was a little pleased with the cleavage on display and the other, quieter part was of you wanted Gaster to notice. You shook your head to chase the thought away, telling yourself that you would put your cardigan back on when the boys got home. In the bathroom, your sweaty clothes were hung up on the heated towel racks to dry. You grabbed the coffee and wondered if you would get a key to the room when you moved in.

  
  


You weren't sure why Gaster’s office intimidated you. Perhaps it was the associated wealth and status of having an actual, professional office in one's own home, or maybe it was just the heavy association it held with Gaster’s important line of work. Trying to disregard your fears, you knocked on the door. 

 

“Doctor, are you free for a minute? I've got a favour to ask.” You called out. 

 

There was no reply, even after you knocked again. Cautiously, you turned the knob and peered inside. The lights were off, but sunlight streamed in through the large bay window. There was no one at the desk, no one behind the door. Gaster was nowhere to be seen. You hadn't seen his assistant in days, now that you thought about it.

 

“Huh.” 

 

You wondered where the doctor had gone and again set off trying to find him, looking through the other rooms on the floor.  _ Surely he would have mentioned if he were heading to the lab? You would have noticed him leaving. _

 

“Gaster?” You sang out in the hopes that you could annoy him into revealing his location.

 

You checked in the boys’ bedrooms, the guest rooms, bathrooms, and even the empty lounge at the end of the hall. Furrowing your brows, you climbed the stairs to the smaller third floor. The ceilings were taller and the hallway wider, but luckily there weren't as many doors to check. One was a smaller and sparsely decorated bedroom room, and there were two locked doors. You knocked on both, but there was no answer. You guessed one to be Gaster’s bedroom, but hadn't been allowed into either room on your brief house tour. You hadn't really seen the third floor and felt a little trepidation at exploring around now, but you had a goal in mind so persevered onward. At the very end of the winding hallway you spotted a half shut door. You confidently pushed it open and stepped inside. 

 

“A library?” You asked to no one in particular. You couldn't tell from where you stood, as giant bookcases blocked most of the view, but based upon your knowledge of the house’s architecture, the room was huge. Quiet, gentle music filled the library but you couldn't find the source, and you wondered if there were speakers hidden between the books that lined every wall. Huge floor to ceiling shelves took up every available space, jutting from the walls to create a narrow maze like walkway that zigzagged without a pattern. The rich red carpet was soft beneath your feet, and as you padded further and further into the library you admired plush armchairs and lit antique lamps that were fitted into random nooks between shelves.

 

“Gaster?” You whispered, rounding a bend to find a wide row of open windows.

 

The Doctor was seated in a large leather armchair, face buried in a book with a hand clasped around an empty mug.

 

“This place is amazing. Why didn't you show me during the house tour?” You smiled and stepped closer.

 

He offered no reply. He didn't even look up.

 

“What are you reading?” You asked. Gaster flinched and looked around, apparently so absorbed in the book that he was oblivious to your approach. He scowled at you, sulkily muttering that you were interrupting. You tutted in response and pressed the fresh steaming mug into his hand, and placed the cold one on a wooden side table.

 

“You're just as bad as Sans when his growing pain flare up. Grumpy sausage.” You said and took a seat.

 

_ Oh. Oh my. Dear sweet afterlife.  _ You practically sunk into soft fabric of the empty armchair beneath an open window.  _ Oh good goddess. Such sweet beautiful comfort. _

 

“You look rather content.” Gaster nodded to the blissful smile upon your face.

 

“It's like the physical embodiment of a gentle soul hug. My bones have never been so supported.” You sighed happily and continued praising his choices of interior design.

 

He huffed out a laugh, not taking his eyes from the book in his hand.

 

“So, what  _ are _ you reading?” You asked curiously.

 

“A book.” 

 

You rolled your eyes at the tiny smirk on Gaster’s face.

 

“You are so obtuse!” You growled, and Gaster’s smile grew larger. 

 

You deposit your coffee on the window sill and heavily cross your arms. “I guess you're still not up to par with my small talk skills.” 

 

He glared up at you with narrowed eyes. “You're full of absolute bollocks: that rhetoric may work on Papyrus but it certainly won't affect me.”

 

“OOH! I finally got you to drop the B-Bomb!” You mocked and hollered, pumping a fist in the air. “Sans is going to be so pleased: he's been trying for days, but all it took was me pestering you over ‘research’.”

 

“I'll have you know this  _ is _ research, but you wouldn't know research if it twatted you in the face!” He stressed.

 

You cackled in delight. “Research, sure sure.That's two for the swear jar.”

 

“This thesis was actually written by a good friend of mine at the university. I'm updating my knowledge in the hopes of collaborating with them on a future project. It's regarding the transference of magic to an offspring during a Boss Monster’s lifespan and subsequent death, and if there are factors that can inhibit the process without negative effects.” He sneered, mumbling about accounting degrees, “Not that you'd have any idea what I’m talking about.”

 

You shrugged. After spending so much time around him you found it best to treat him like an errant child and ignore most of his insult spitting so as to not encourage more. Unfortunately it didn't always work. 

 

“Surely it's just like market supply and product demand? The Boss Monster’s Soul, AKA the supply, continually produces energy to feed the higher growth rate and magical output of a Boss Monster child, AKA the demand, but this happens at a rate so high that the parents can't reproduce it quickly enough to keep up. It's a closed system because, well, conservation of energy: the parent's can't make more energy than genetically possible, only a steady rate of atmospheric magic conversion, otherwise it’ll overload their system. On the other hand, if you cut off the supply, the demand will continually increase as it still has its own external system to maintain. The longer the supply is cut off, the more and more energy it needs to function, otherwise the entire thing will fall apart.” 

 

The Doctor watched on as you animatedly gestured with your hands. He nodded almost imperceivable. 

 

“Well, yes. That's the theory in the most rudimentary terms with the oddest analogy possible, but surprisingly it fits.”

 

“You've seen my certificates. You know that I aced my Monster Studies programme.” You boast.  _ Sure, you don't have as many degrees as he did, but you weren't an idiot. _

 

Gaster ploughed ahead, very much caught up in a working mindset, “My aim is to look closer into the natural limits of the transfer and how the link can be intercepted to maintain the wellbeing of both adult and child.”

 

“I don't know how that would be possible. I'm sure if there were another way, evolution would have grabbed onto it and ensured the trait continued.” You admitted, and then broke into a devilish smile, “Papyrus definitely would have seen that one coming, but whilst you were so hell bent on fluffing your ego, you totally walked right into ‘the rhetoric’ that you claimed you wouldn't fall for.”

 

Gaster sputtered. “Get out of my house.”

 

You shook your head and happily settled into the armchair, sipping on your coffee and uploading some sponsored product posts to your social media accounts.

 

The library fell into a comfortable quiet. The gentle music filled the air, something familiar and classical that you could not name, and the soft sounds of Gaster continually turning pages. It was cool and comfortable, with a slow breeze filtering through the open windows that made your hair flutter around. Your eyes closed of their own accord, and your head tilted back. 

 

“I assume you're here for a reason.” Gaster asked as you were just dropping off to sleep.

 

You huffed, annoyed that your peace was interrupted, and drowned the last of your coffee.

 

“Everyone is.” You said cryptically.

 

“Did you really find me with the intent to debate the philosophical implications of our existence upon the earth, questions of destiny, and the driving force of the ever present “why” that threatens to unravel those who have yet to find their purpose in life?” Gaster pressed, snapping his book closed with resounding  _ clap _ , denoting his mood and displeasure with the turn in conversation.

  
  


“Nah,” You answered casually, a soft smile pulling at the corners of your lips, “I just came here to quote some fate bullshit to see what it takes to make you jump out a window.”

 

~ 

 

Gaster scowled down at you, carefully watching your pleased expression. It reminded him of a cat toying with a mouse, no true intent to kill, only playing until it grew bored and found something else to pounce upon. It was odd to see on someone else's face, just as it was odd to endure someone else toying with him instead of the other way around. He tried to read between the lines expressed upon your face, but couldn't see anything beyond,  _ ugh,  _ playfulness.

 

Your hair flowed with the breeze, framing your face and catching against your mouth. You said something else, he didn't quite care to listen, too fascinated by your fingers delicately pulling the caught hair from your soft lips-  _ No, no. No!  _ He tried to read your expression, and again he came up short, too distracted by the low cut of your shirt and the lighting falling just perfectly across your chest. 

 

The habit had formed already, so his body reacted before his brain could quite figure out why: for reasons unbeknownst to him, almost impulsive in nature, he pulled out his phone and activated the camera as you rested by the light of the window, and he accidentally _ \- or maybe not- _ caught a high angle shot, capturing only your face and chest in the picture. If you noticed you never commented, just as he remained quiet about the fit of your shorts or how you shirt rode up with each movement. It was an unsettling feeling, watching you become so much more casual and relaxed around him after a simple change of clothes. He recalled the incident at the restaurant and how your posture changed to something strong and stern and powerful after donning your dress. You wore it like armour; a defense against the environment. Now you were open and unafraid, but he was afraid of how viscerally he enjoyed your softer side.

 

_ No. No! Do not dwell on it. _ He looked down at the snapshot on his phone, the preservation of a single, simple moment in time. Framed by a glorious yellow sun, eyes closed as you relaxed in the natural light, complemented with the worn red of the armchair and backed by the faded book spines. An aesthetically pleasing picture, he thought as he looked it over, but he wasn't quite sure if it was the composition that made it appealing, or the subject poised like a cat napping in the sun.

 

“You are impossible.” He grumbled. Perhaps the image not quite blackmail material, for it was not embarrassing or risque. He couldn't bring himself to marr it in gaudy colours or digital stickers so he thought to discard it, but found himself saving it to his personal storage account instead.

 

You shrugged nonchalantly, eyes still closed with a smile on your face. “Not impossible. You just haven't figured me out yet.”

 

_ A challenge? He never backed down from a challenge.  _ Perhaps you were unaware of the puzzle you had laid out for him, the tiny pieces you had unintentionally started scattering around, but he was driven and intended to solve it nonetheless. Somehow you knew how to press each of his buttons, each tiny hidden trigger that made him want to lash out. He'd known about your uncanny ability to do so since the very first interview, but he remained confused by the reactions it sparked from him. 

 

Initially it was a test: a front to try and dig out your true nature for him to scrutinise, but apparently you already wore it on your sleeve, so there were no bottled up emotions to dredge out from the ocean of your Soul. You gave it willingly, and the puzzle vexed him. His reactions changed the longer he spent around you. Sometimes it was anger where he wanted to shout and snap when you were being so perfectly contrary and irritating. It was never true anger, he found he was never truly full of hatred or even dislike, merely a front to get you to leave when you relentlessly pestered. But you never left. Something changed over time, and his reactions were based on something else. It was becoming more and more prevalently… something. He couldn't name it, couldn't begin to place it, which caused more sharp infuriation. He thought about the source, the true name for the feelings. Affection, perhaps?  _ No. _ That wasn't such a volatile emotion, more in line with the love held for a small animal or cute pet.  _ This _ was stronger, made him want to reach out and grab you and push you up against the wall and… do something.  _ Something?  _ He wasn't sure. Maybe, somewhere deep down, he knew exactly what he needed but he didn't want to dwell on it.  _ No,  _ he thought as the actions he rather desperately craved became imaginary scenarios in his mind,  _ that would be inappropriate, he couldn't possibly do such a thing. _

 

He stood and pushed the book back into its intended space upon the shelf, simultaneously failing to dismiss the tangle of thoughts that could not be stored away as neatly as a book. The scene played out unbidden in his mind.  _ You would never allow it: your flirtatious nature was to simply push buttons to garner a reaction. There was no deeper meaning behind it. _

 

_ Right? _

 

Irritated that he couldn't parse his thoughts and feelings into words he snapped out, wanting to upset you and get you to leave. He wanted the source of his feelings and messy, impossible, invasive daydreams to go away.

 

“What. Do. You. Want?” 

 

But you didn't react like the others. You didn't cower or flinch away. Curiously, he thought that he wouldn't enjoy it if you shrunk away or cried.  _ Actually, he didn't like that idea at all. _ He hadn't yet displayed the worst of his temper, for he had never any reason to do so around you. You were complex and opinionated and pried and fought until you wormed your way into his thoughts, but you were also soft and gentle and kind. He could not lash out without reason. 

 

It was a disgusting thought that, perhaps, you were softening him as a result. _ You couldn't possibly be making him weak. You were too strong to make him weak, no matter your softer side. _

 

But you carried on, dismissing the anger that he displayed, for it had no use in the conversation. You dismissed it, and so did he.  _ It's all for play. _ You push buttons, he reacts accordingly so you do that tittering laugh where your shoulders shake and your eyes crease with delight. It was the reaction he wanted from you, so he played along. 

  
  


“I'd like to record a video here. The library is a quaint backdrop. No livestream, just a video.” 

 

“Oh.” He said and smoothed the wrinkles from his shirt, leaving his jacket hooked upon on the coat rack hidden behind his chair. He wanted to tell you no, wanted you to set your shoulders straight and push harder until he relented.

 

“If that was all, you should have just asked.” 

 

That confused you. Your expression was clear, you too expected to have to push harder to get what you wanted. He found himself rather amused by your dumbfounded reaction. The gears in your mind turned, evident by the small tick of the corner of your mouth.

 

“What's the catch?” You asked, looking up with a suspicious glance. You had every right to be wary, afterall.

 

“None.” He shrugged, and tapped on his phone to call his wayward assistant. “Give me a few moments to make this call, and I shall set up with any camera and lighting rigs. I don't want you damaging the carpet or the ebony shelves because your puny human arms can't safely carry the equipment.” 

 

You gave him a smile of gratitude, the wary expression melting away into something much more genuine. It caused a strange burning to chase through his system, like acid in his veins. He smiled in return, and the feeling intensified. 

 

Confused by the feeling he stalked out of the library, leaving you to move armchairs and side tables as Cirrus finally answered the phone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My links have suddenly stopped working and I have no idea what's going wrong. Sorry about that ^^"


	13. Lights, Camera, Action!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You didn't mean to listen to that telephone conversation, but in all fairness you weren't really given much of a choice.
> 
> You didn't understand the majority of it, but they were most certainly talking about you.

“And why are you at the lab? You're fully aware that you're not sanctioned to be at the facilities unattended! No, it doesn't count if Dr. Cooper is there. He’s as useless as he is stupid. Cooper can't even tell the difference between his own children; they're not even monozygotic twins! Look, Cooper isn't exactly playing with a full set of cards. He doesn't know his elbow from his- yes, I will continue, I've worked with that man for over a decade and I know an idiot when I see one so I'm fully within my rights to- He- Shush! He couldn't pour water out of a shoe if there were instructions written on the heel!”

 

It was impossible to hear any replies from your position by the window, even the doctor's voice was muffled by the walls upon walls of books standing in the way. You guessed the person on the other end of the line was protesting, if Gaster’s constantly interrupted idioms were anything to go by. You wondered why they hadn't hung up already.

 

“Fetching? Fetching what, exactly? More fuel for your self-aggrandising nature, perhaps? Or maybe you're there to pick up some-” His voice was gradually rising in volume. You suddenly knew where Papyrus got it from. The level of noise, that is, not the anger. Papyrus, gentle and sweet, wasn't quick to anger.

 

“Of course she's here! She's always here.”

 

You froze, almost dropping the table clasped in your arms. _Was he talking about you?_

 

“I swear to every single god, every single deity that has even been recorded throughout the entirety of our history, if you spout any more of that bollocks I will drag you out of the lab and kick you straight to the Moon! In fact, beyond the Moon! Because, years from now, when you inevitably get trapped back into an orbit around the solar system like a hunk of useless rock hurtling through space at 54,000 miles an hour, I will build a rocket in the shape of a giant metal foot, I will pilot that ship, I will hunt you down no matter how fast or how far you travel, and when I eventually catch up to the withered husk of your body I will kick it straight into the Sun!”

 

You put the table down, perhaps a little indelicately, and clapped a hand over your mouth to cover the noise of a strangled, mortified gasp that morphed into laughter. Under no circumstances did you want to be caught listening to, let alone reacting to their conversation. He had left to make the call for a reason, and you certainly weren't supposed to hear it. You were used to Gaster saying such things, but the way in which he worded them was often so unbearably ridiculous that you couldn't help the undignified snort that shook your body. It had been enough time that you knew he was being so dramatic because he was probably in a foul mood, and you didn't want him to hear your laughter and froth himself into an even more hideous outrage.

 

“Do you know who you sound like right now?” He said after a long, drawn out silence.

  
You listened, clammy hands perspiring against the smooth finish of the wood that you leaned against.

 

“Arial! Yes. Gasp all you like, gasp away, my boy. You sound like a nagging, jealous ex-wife who spends far too much of their time gossiping about whomever I choose to associate with! Not to mention you bleed me dry once a month and I get nothing in return but disappointment.” He gave a hearty laugh that sounded forced, even to your ears.

 

“You always assume the worst! I- No, I am not fucking the nanny! Do you have any self respect? Just because you'd fuck anything with Soul doesn't mean you can project those jealousies onto me, nor her.”

 

The tone of utter repulsion that slipped from Gaster’s mouth made your repressed fantasy shut down instantly. _Of course there wasn't a chance._

 

_Wait. Holy shit. What the fuck was the other person saying about you?! Who were they?_

 

“Why do you think she's here? She's doing her god damn job, unlike my assistant!” He seethed.

 

Well, that kinda answered your question.

 

He continued seamlessly, biting out his words “My assistant- as previously mentioned is galavanting halfway across town in a place he that isn't supposed to be- whom, as we speak, should be helping me to fill out funding proposals and maintenance forms, but _as previously mentioned_ , he's too busy playing scientist and gossiping at the fucking office!”

 

Obviously a certain assistant had it out for you. Weird. Did Gaster have multiple assistants? Maybe more at his laboratory? If it was Cirrus, then you were really confused. You had met the guy, like, twice and had barely spoken more than a few words to him. Maybe you needed to talk more to clear the air of any misunderstandings?

 

You pushed one chair as close as you could to the wall opposite your desired filming space, setting the tables up side by side so you had something to rest against. You tried not to think about the conversation going on just outside the door and instead focused on how full the swear jars would be at the end of the day.

 

“Why would you even ask that, you absolute fucking child? Yes, objectively speaking, she is. I mean, have you even looked at her, of course she is!  Oh… oh, Cirrus. I'm not even going to dignify that with a response."

 

_Yep. Definitely Cirrus._

 

Loud footsteps rang out, slowly getting quieter and quieter, but you could still hear the shouting as he walked down the stairs.

 

“Are you doing this to get the redhead from engineering to sleep with you? Because, and I do so love to be the bearer of your personal bad news, she's happily married and a massive lesbian, and yet you haven't quite gotten the hint that you're fucked on both fronts! Oh, and if I get there and the entire laboratory assumes I'm sleeping with my new hire, and if I ever- directly or otherwise- hear you say those kinds of things about her again, I will personally see to it that you're locked away in your apartment. I will end you.”

 

A door slammed somewhere in the house, the vibration of the floorboards thrumming steadily through the soles of your feet. You could only hear your heart beating tightly against your eardrums and the vague noises of Gaster’s voice. It was too distorted to tell what was being said, but you guessed that he was still scolding his assistant like an errant child.

 

_Holy shit._

 

You sat down for a while, feeling completely overwhelmed. You wouldn't usually eavesdrop on a private conversation, especially considering Gaster had left the room to make the call, but his shouting hadn't really given you much of a choice. Cirrus was acting like a jealous lover, Gaster was acting like… Well, you didn't quite know, but he seemed to be prickly and defensive when it came to whatever mystery questions he was asked.

 

 _Holy. Shit._  
  
  
~  
  
  
Gaster returned a few minutes later. You were leaning out of a window, trying to rapidly cool the sweat from your body after lugging around two massive armchairs and deceptively heavy side tables to suit your needs. Unfortunately the wind had picked up and clouds were being drawn across the sky, the weather cooling rapidly as you watched the light turn grey. You hoped the lighting would be consistent throughout your video as you really didn't want to reshoot it at a later time.

 

_Clomp clomp clomp clomp!_

 

You turned and looked over your shoulder, surprised to hear Gaster’s feet stomping across the carpet. Usually his gate was even, measured with absolute precision and deathly quiet, but now, with a furious fire gleaming in his eyes and half bitten mumbling falling from his lips, he thudded right passed you. With a huff and poorly hidden growling he flopped into an armchair and hunched over his phone with murderous intent. You tilted your head, curious, but decided to let him stew for a while before asking what the actual fuck that was all about.

 

You walked away and scooped up your car keys to fetch your equipment from the trunk, surprised to find the doctor following closely behind. His face was practically pressed up against the screen of his phone, and he only paused to roughly pocket it when you handed over the metal poles for your camera stand.

 

He remained utterly quiet as you wobbled back to the library to set up, balancing poles and cameras and bulbs in your arms, only nodding curtly when you dictated what needed to go where.

 

The faded red armchair was picked up as if it barely weighed anything at all and Gaster looked as if the load was effortless to carry. It was quite a spectacle to witness. He positioned the chair behind the tables, carefully moved the single lighting rig out of shot of the camera, setting the microphone stand close by and finally stood back to admire his hard work. You opened your mouth to speak but he dove right back in, mechanically measuring out where to put the light so it wouldn't look unnatural amongst the thin sun streaming in through the windows. His brow furrowed, and though you really tried not to, you couldn't help but watch the corded muscles of his back and arms tense and flex beneath the fabric of his shirt.

 

“Uh, thank you.” You tried to smile, but it just felt awkward. “That'll be fine. It's just an informal video about fan mail, so it doesn't need to be perfect.”

 

You clicked a few buttons to set the camera rolling, the fan of your laptop whirring quietly in the background. You took a seat once more but found yourself unable to truly enjoy its luxurious comfort under Gaster’s gaze and the blank stare of the camera. You arranged the hoard of boxes around you and watched him take the seat on the other side of the nook. Though out of shot of the camera, you could still see him clearly beyond the black metal poles.

 

“You don't have to stay. You'll probably get fed up after a while. I highly doubt this is your kind of entertainment.” You said, pulling your microphone closer and setting a pair of bright yellow safety scissors on the makeshift worktop. He hadn't even warned you to be careful of the varnish. In fact, he had barely fussed at all. _Gods, he was clearly in a mood._

 

He fixed you with a scowl and shook his head.

“I’m merely interested to see what a regular work day looks like for someone who does… this.” He gestured to your setup. The sour expression on his face betrayed his curious words but he stuck around anyway, face grumpy and buried in a book, and you tried your best to ignore him. His words held a bite that made you feel self-conscious, but you quickly brushed them aside. You had heard it all before, especially from those who considered your line of work ‘not a real job’. It hadn't taken you long to grow a thicker skin against those words, but it hurt coming from someone you respected. You shook your head and started.

 

Your usual intro rolled smoothly from your tongue, and you vaguely explained that you were trying a slightly new backdrop to mix things up. It was difficult to make the conscious effort, hard not to say that you’d gotten a new job, especially where and how. Even if you slipped up, you would catch it whilst editing. Once you had gotten into the routine of reading fan letters aloud, opening mystery packages and reviewing the contents it was surprisingly easy to forget Gaster was there.

 

_Oh, a cute handmade purse. A sparkly doll themed notebook to write down some video ideas, how convenient that your old journal was on its last few pages! Some adorable letters from followers and viewers._

 

You paused as you read over a scribbled note from a plain yellow envelope. The usual shit of ' _you suck, make better content, git gud, blah blah blah.'_

 

You could never understood why they went to such lengths like writing a letter and paying for postage, but you were used to the occasional shitters in the comment boxes of your social media profiles. You crumpled the nasty letter and tossed it out of view of the camera without wanting to even address it in public, trying to remember to edit that out as you picked out another package.

_Holy cow, a weird vintage board game, you could play that with another video channel in a collab! Even if you didn't film it, the boys would enjoy a game night. Cool._

 

Every now and then you fumbled over your words and paused to make editing easier before starting up again, but Gaster would poorly hide a chuckle. In fact, he didn't really hide it at all. You would flinch, surprised, having forgotten he was there altogether. There was an unsettling nature to his actions, or therefore lack of. An unnaturally quiet Gaster was even worse than a loud one, and a feeling akin to the building of atmospheric pressure before a storm pressed against your bones and squeezed your lungs. You rolled your eyes every time he laughed, trying to kid yourself that it wasn't hurtful or irritating or frustrating or-

You sighed and pressed onward.

 

Occasionally between takes and breaks to drink from a bottle of water you glanced over at him. His face was still stuck in that awful expression but strangely his body posture was aimed toward you; hips and shoulders poised in your direction, feet pointing towards you and crossed at the ankles with one tapping at the air in unreleased, distracted tension. In a way it reminded you of a cat that silently demanded attention by sitting close by, insistent on being underfoot, unable to handle you ignoring him when he was so very clearly ignoring you.

 

You wrapped up quickly and waved to the camera as you said the scripted outro, trying to not let the video go on for too long. You had plenty of footage, even if you had to cut out most of your rambling tangents or interesting trivia facts about things you’d been sent. You had a thick binder at home where you stored all of your nice fan letters and notes, so you set the new ones in a neat pile. It didn't take you long to pack the eclectic collection of items into a single box to go into your designated storage container. You decided to quickly breakdown the cardboard and paper to send them for further recycling. When Gaster was in a better mood, you would have to ask where the nearest center was.

 

Without thinking you stopped the recording with a handy wireless remote and moved to check the footage and audio files. It all looked good! The lighting was perfect, the background wasn't overwhelming, and the content would be fun for viewers to watch. The audio and visuals were a little out of sync but that was an easy fix. You smiled and saved it all to your hard drive with a few simple clicks of the mouse.

 

“Oh I'm glad that's over.” Gaster huffed quietly into his book.

 

Your patience was worn thin by his constant chafing, and it finally snapped.

 

“What the hell! What is wrong with you?” You asked, appalled and upset by the fact his attitude hadn't improved or at least settled after the call.

 

His head snapped up from his book, the motion quick and smooth like a predator catching movement in his hunting grounds.

 

“Does it look like everything is fine? Did that sound like it was an enjoyable conversation?! No, you eavesdropping shit! Not that you would have any idea, too wrapped up in your videos and memes and- and-! Of course I'm not okay, you insufferable idiot.” He growled, standing to flail his arms around as if to showcase his displeasure.

 

Anger burned hot and caustic through your skin. You stood upright, tense and stiff as you stepped around the tables and tripods. This was not one of your games. There would be no cat and mouse, no witty banter, no playful back and forth with an undefined winner. A line had been crossed in the sands of decorum and the territory you had both stumbled into was effectively a war zone. Something wicked surged up your throat and left your teeth feeling strange and sharp in your mouth. You were out for blood.

You tried not to bite out your words, but it was not very effective.

 

“Hey, are the kids home?” Your voice sickly sweet and venomous.

 

Baffled, Gaster’s pinwheeling arms stopped in their tracks and he paused, confused by the sudden question.

 

“No, not yet. The bus will have picked them up, though they won't be back for another half an hour.”

 

“Good. Good.” You didn't want there to be even the tiniest of chances of them hearing what you were dying to say.

 

You marched right up to your boss, toe to toe, chest to chest, head craning up to glare directly at him. Personal space invaded, you leered for good measure.

 

“ **You**!” With a roar you prodded a finger against his shoulder, absolutely furious as you jabbed your nail straight into the dense muscle. Despite the force used he had barely moved and didn't react at all, but that did little to sway your anger, “You do not get to speak to me like that! You do not get to take your anger and stress out on me just because you think that I am the closest person available or the easiest target that will accept your very specific flavour of bullshit. No, I may not understand the science or the equations but I know when an adult is acting like a child throwing a tantrum, kicking and screaming to bully and get his own way. I know when someone is barely holding it all in, but you need to get out of the habit of exploding at me because you will learn very very quickly that it will not end well for you.

“It sounds like you're struggling and I will support you however I can, but I am not your singular emotional outlet. I will not be your fucking tool to scream at until you feel better about yourself. You may have made enemies over the years, and though I am unassuming, you do want to make an enemy of me too.”

 

You jabbed again and it appeared as if your words had an effect. He took a step back, eyed wide in shock and awe, arms slack by his side as he clutched helplessly at the since forgotten book.

 

“I do not deny that I overheard a difficult conversation- one that apparently involves me, by the way, but we can have an actual conversation about that when you've calmed the fuck down. I thought we were making some kind of progress, building some kind of weird friendship to support the boys, but the very second you pull that shit again I will leave without hesitation. I told you from the very beginning, I am not here to fix you and I will not put up with your shit.” You bellowed. “Those were the terms we agreed upon, yes?”

 

He looked down at you, his mouth open and silent.

 

“Yes?” You press again and stand back, defiant.

 

“That is correct.” He said, tone stilted and unsure. You were on a roll and couldn't stop the words from falling out.

 

“For once I'm not going to think I'm at fault and blame myself for my very valid feelings. I'm not going to let myself think I've gotten too casual and informal around my employer, or too sloppy with my work to warrant such abuse. Right now I do not give a single shit if you're my boss. You could be the goddamn King for all I care, I would still call out the cruelty, bullying behaviour and unjustified anger aimed toward me. You fix this, or I walk.” With shaking, clenched fists, you turned to leave.

 

“Just leave my stuff here, I'll pack it up before I head home in the evening. I'm going to wait for the boys at the community gate.” With your back turned to him, you gestured towards the equipment and stalked away, leaving him to ruminate on your words.

  
  
~  
  
  
Gaster knew he had fucked up. He watched you leave, stone faced with your fists clenched into a white knuckle grip. You hadn't even looked back. He let out a long and low sigh and ran a hand down his face. You had been furious, you were _still_ furious, but that look of hurt and anger in your eyes as you shouted and raved mere inches away from his face, it was odd. He didn't enjoy it. Well, nobody particularly enjoyed being taken down a peg or two, but to see the absolute raw disgust made him feel regret. Gaster was unsure when he had last felt such remorse.

 

It was disconcerting. Perhaps it was merely an outlier in the pattern of your observed behaviour, but he could not blame you. He'd seen you passionately ranting, full of energy and a spark of something pure and refined, distilled into something volatile when your Soul gave you a nudge to just keep going no matter what. But _that_? That was a provoked reaction, he was ashamed to even think it, that he had brought out of you: one that had boiled over like an unwatched pot, foaming and spilling out in a scalding riot after hours of prodding and poking the right buttons by sulking like a sullen teenager. He had dismissed your involvement in a rather loud conversation that was very obviously centered around you. At first he thought that he would keep it quiet, at most give a vague overview, but perhaps he was trying to spare himself the embarrassment of detailing exactly what his _fuckhead_ of an assistant had asked over the telephone.

 

You were enraged but he must have had that coming for quite a while if you had been provoked to the point of threatening him. Your behaviour went against the nurturing nature he had seen thus far. It was as if you were a once docile animal that had been pinned to the corner of a cage, and in the blink of an eye had turned feral. You had sensed the danger so turned savage and ferocious, unwilling to be tamed and spitting fury all the while.

 

Gaster was at odds with himself, staring solemnly at the idle phone in his lap. On one hand his pride was wounded and that made him want to lash out further, to make you regret making him feel… things. Yet on the other, he knew he had fully deserved it for going against the very basis of your tenuous oral contract.

 

_“You fix this, or I walk.”_

 

Thinking of your hissed tone brought a shiver down his spine. He had fucked up and didn't know how to fix it. Simply apologising wouldn't do anything, for words were cheap and easy to throw around, so he had to actually do something to show remorse. On the very rare occasion that Papyrus messed up in such an outlandish fashion, he was fond of apologising by pouring his affection and repentance into baking. Sans, luckily having not yet grown into the dreaded sullen preteen phase, would write little notes and made sure to end it with a promise that he would do better.

 

Experience taught many things but unfortunately apologising was something Gaster rarely found himself doing, no matter how much it was warranted. Equally as unfortunate, he could not present an “I’m sorry” cake or letter to get out of the mess he had created.

 

His phone vibrated and caught him off guard. A message from Dr. Cooper that Gaster didn't even want to entertain until the next morning at the very earliest. No, now he had a much more pressing goal in mind.

 

There had to be somebody out there with the specific area of expertise that he was looking for, one who would lend him an ear or other listening apparatus. Yet the more he ran through an internal list of the people he knew, the more he discovered that he couldn't really think of anyone to ask for advice. There were colleagues and acquaintances and other parents from the boys' school, old friends from his own university days that he had never really kept in touch with and diplomats that he could only vaguely recall. Of course there was the King who was always on hand to help soothe the ailments of his people, but their relationship was strictly professional: they were not close enough for Gaster to confide in. Toriel would most certainly help but she would probably scold him like a mother instead of offering a solution right away, and again he wasn't that familiar with her to be able to share such a failing.

So Gaster had to make do with the next best thing. He quickly typed into the internet search engine on his phone and clicked on the very first link that came up.

 

** The Definitive Guide to Life: **

 

**How to apologise to a friend.**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AKA "In which Gaster metaphorically sucker-punches you with his bad attitude and you get to hit back twice as hard, which is almost as satisfying as physically slapping him.  
> Almost."
> 
> Oh boy, that certainly happened. Yes it did. It did indeed. 
> 
> Next time: More pining! More apologies! Hopefully less of Dr. Gaster being a massive dick!
> 
> Many thanks to LittleQuail, my editor (and Anthropology Consultant, because American terms confuse me!) :D
> 
> Come say hi over on my Tumblr, Athenanuu


	14. A Crash Course in Remorse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ~~'Do I have to say I'm sorry?'~~
> 
> 'How much mental fortitude and suffering is required to make a sufficient and meaningful apology?'

 

The cold afternoon air was bracing against your skin, cooling the sharp prickling of anger and soothing the burn. You had just enough forethought to slip into your shoes, but you had stomped out of the house without picking up a jacket, too full of dense wrath to think beyond ‘get the hell out of that room.’

 

The weather had cooled far too quickly for your liking, too cold to be out for any reasonable amount of time, and even though you had fled in your shorts and tank top you were grateful for the lack of coverage. The wind flung your hair around and whipped against your skin as if to beat against your aggression, smothering the flames of fury until you were nothing more than a smouldering ember.

 

You sighed heavily and willed yourself not to continue the cycle of anger and take it out on the boys. They were an innocent party who didn't deserve the upset, no matter how vivid your feelings were.

 

Passing through the magical barrier that made up part of the community gate, you waved to Guard Dogg as you walked by the small guardpost, but he seemed too involved with paperwork to do much beyond yipping out a greeting. It was probably for the best as you didn't think you could handle polite conversation without stopping to practise meditative breathing.   

 

Loose pieces of gravel clicked and ground beneath the soles of your shoes as you exited the guest car park and walked towards the tall metal post marking the bus stop. You leaned against the brick wall and pulled out your phone to check the time. _Oops_. In your hurry to leave you had forgotten you had to wait another 25 minutes for the boys to arrive. You were not too upset by the fact as it gave you plenty of time to cool your head and kindly greet the boys after a hard day of examination. You tried to waste the time and play some silly, inconsequential game on your phone, but even as your thumbs tapped away at the puzzles your thoughts turned to the argument.

 

There was a small sense of satisfaction in forcing your feelings out into the open, reminding Gaster of your original oral agreement in a mess of vitriolic swearing and defensive zeal. Even though your ego was a little bruised, you prayed it would be enough to finally get through his thick skull that you were not going to deal with his unwarranted temper tantrums.

 

It all happened so quickly in the heat of the moment, but after replaying the scenario in your mind with slight variations, you thought that ultimately you had done the right thing.

In the hopes that he would understand the severity of your upset, you had said your piece, told him to make things right and left so you could both cool off. It was up to him to rectify the mess. If he didn't, well, it would be difficult for you to leave just as you were getting started, but you would begrudgingly apply for other jobs. If he did want to work things out… _hmm_ , you weren't sure what you would do. Part of you was expecting that he wouldn't even bother to try. You wondered if he ever apologised to his kids where necessary.

 

How you and Gaster acted in private was certainly different from the way you held yourselves in front of the boys, and you hoped the doctor's aggression or denial wouldn't bleed into other aspects of his life. It was an all too similar thought to the one circling your mind when you had first confronted Gaster at Bastion House, and just like before, if he greeted you all at the door to Citadel Manor by spitting and frothing at the mouth then you would try your best to protect the children from it. That was not their burden to witness.

 

In the face of that pessimism you were hesitantly confident that you could work towards forgiveness with enough effort from both parties. It wouldn't be easy and certainly not instant, but already you were too involved in the family to give up so easily.

  


You had climbed all the way to level 17 on your puzzle game when the school bus finally pulled up. Pneumatic brakes screamed against your ear drums and the doors opened with a mechanical hiss. You winced and looked up to a sea of round and unfamiliar faces staring at you through tinted windows. A small slime girl waved, and you returned the gesture with a smile. The boys jumped from the steps one after the other and their tired yet pleased expressions told you the exams had gone well. You gave quick a thumbs-up to the bus driver as he drove away, then you pulled the kids into a small hug.

 

“Hi guys! I hope you had a nice day at school.”

 

Papyrus collided with you and shouted, “HELLO!” directly into your stomach.

 

“I thought you weren't meeting us today! What a surprise! The surprisiest of surprises!” He bellowed.

 

You were glad that your skin and the fabric of your tank top muffled most of the screaming. Something softly touched your side, and you held in your surprise when Sans tentatively reached up to pat your back.

 

“I'm sorry, I should have asked first.” You apologised and let them go, not wanting to make him uncomfortable.

 

Sans shrugged and scuffed his shoe along the concrete to kick away a small pebble.

 

“It's okay. You aren't like those creepy ladies who call themselves our Aunts but they're not even related to us.” He turned to Papyrus, “Y'know, the ones who never make it apparent before they slap us with gross old lady smooches that leave lipstick everywhere, or like, they don't telegraph their moves so their hugs take us by surprise. You're easy to read, so I can see it comin’.”

 

You let out a chuckle and took their bags, pleased that they had both remembered to bring home their baseball caps and lunchboxes.

 

“Don't worry, I'm not offended. I'm much more concerned with how you feel. If anything I do- in fact, if anyone does anything that makes either of you genuinely uncomfortable, let me or your father know.” You said.

 

Sans gave a confident nod, but Papyrus took a moment to mull it over.

 

“So,” He began, a small smile growing at the corners of his mouth, “if I told you that cleaning my room makes me uncomfortable…?”

 

Your laughter was loud and genuine, and you rubbed a hand across the back of his skull. Papyrus beamed up at you, happy that he managed to make you smile.

 

“Gods, you are too smart for your own good.” You giggled and wiped a tear from the corner of your eye, “but unfortunately, that won't work. You still have to clean your room.”

 

“Nice try Paps, but you won't get out of your chores that easily: I still have to take out the garbage, even after that time I accidentally set fire to the dumpster by the gate house.” Sans patted his brother's shoulder in a sympathetic show of understanding.

 

“You tiny pyromaniac! How do you keep doing that?” You gasped. The fact that he had accidentally set many items aflame still surprised you.

 

Sans zipped up his jacket as the wind kicked up. “You haven't seen our Applied Magical Practices, have you?”

 

You shook your head and knelt to help Papyrus close his own coat.

 

“I keep telling your dad to write up an itinerary, but he never does.” You rolled your eyes and let out a mighty huff, “I'll find out if I can sit in on your next practice.”

 

“Oh goodie, you're in for a treat!” Papyrus jogged on the spot, making you wriggle around to keep a hand on the coat's zipper.

 

“That certainly sounds fun. Let's head home now, it's too chilly to stay out.” You stood to wipe the dirt from your knees, “You can tell us all about your day when we get back. Your dad will want to hear every detail.”

 

Sans linked hands with Papyrus to stop him from skipping ahead through the gate and you followed closely behind, nodding along to the chatter about their lunch break.   

 

Some way along the paved road, whilst absentmindedly watching the idyllic houses with immaculate gardens and the thick white wall that stood tall around the community, you decided to walk in front. You weren't sure why, but you were on guard for what could happen when you reached the Gaster residence. You occasionally glanced over your shoulder to make sure you hadn't gotten too far ahead, not wanting to be so bull headed and absorbed in your own turmoil to notice the distance between you and your charges.

 

Papyrus ran up to take hold of your hand and his face split into a wide grin, all chubby cheeks and starry eyes. Sans slowly clasped you other hand, and just like that your anger settled, sitting quietly in the background as you laughed along to their stories. It was peaceful.

Despite the white noise buzzing softly in the corners of your mind, you knew without a doubt that their happiness and safety was your main priority. They were the very reason you persevered.

 

~

 

The cold seemed to linger in the shadow of the abandoned gatehouse that marked the entrance to the Gaster household. You shivered, hesitant to get inside where the central heating system had most likely been activated but also the place where an argument could hypothetically occur. The boys made that choice for you, or more specifically Sans did by twisting his hand in a complicated motion and opening the front door with a glow of blue magic.  

 

You were about to scold him, even though you knew his retort would be _‘the magic technically isn't inside the house’_ , but your frown was interrupted by someone letting out a small surprised gasp.  

 

You stopped mid stride, shoes snapping loudly against the driveway as the boys let go of your hands. Gaster was stood on the other side of door frame, one arm out as if to twist the handle of the now open door, the other clutching cardboard boxes and the poles of a black tripod to his chest. He looked stunned, glancing between you, the open trunk of your car and the boys meandering unaware up the front stairs. His movements were tense as he shifted to let them inside and he took a few hesitant steps to your car.

 

Papyrus rocked back on his heels, waiting in the hallway where he clearly expected you to follow. His brow bones were knotted with concern as he watched Gaster carefully pack your equipment away.

 

“Paps,” You called over, your face plastered with a false smile, “You guys get changed out of your school uniforms and put them in your laundry baskets. I'll make some hot drinks so you can let us know how your day went. I just need to talk to your dad first, okay?”  

 

That seemed to comfort some of the boy's hesitation and he scrambled to take off his blazer.

 

“‘KAY!” He waved and ran up the stairs, leaving the front door wide open and his scuffed black school shoes abandoned on the door mat.  

 

Satisfied with the arrangement of your equipment, Gaster clicked the trunk shut, locked the vehicle and turned to you. Without something to concentrate on he nervously clutched your keys in his hands, his look of dread only seemed to increase with each confident step that you took toward him. You had forgotten to pick the keys up when you had fled the house, and trying to think back, you couldn't even remember where you'd left them. You watched his expression steel for a few tense moments and you silently willed him to say something, anything that was positive.  

 

“I would like to offer a sincere apology.” He said, handing across your car keys as if his bones were made of lead. After exposure to the cold wind, the metal bit into your palm, but you waited for him to continue instead of heading straight for the warmth beyond the door.  

 

“I have hurt you and I would like to rebuild the mutual trust that I have undoubtedly shaken, and also reestablish our relationship, not just as an employer but also as friends. My behaviour was unacceptable by all standards and moral codes, and only I am to blame for such aggression. I am embarrassed by my conduct, as surely as I have embarrassed and insulted you in the process.

 

“It was rude and childish of me to interrupt you whilst you worked, and it was selfish of me to diminish the nature of your career. You have worked very hard to build your business to an impressive standard, no matter how new the industry may be, and you continue to hold such a strong ethic that produces quality product. When you left I did some research, and I found myself quite surprised by your following and your competitors- hm, well not surprised, merely ignorant; wilfully or not, that is for me to ponder upon. You work in a field like many others: dominated by male counterparts who coast by on mediocrity, whilst you are criticised by a double standard that either puts you on a pedestal or shoots you down. As a man in a powerful position, I understand that some of my thought processes and insults may stem from an insidious place of bias, and I also see how insulting your intelligence falls directly into that deplorable line of thinking. Your many skills and capabilities may differ from my own but that does not mean that they are any less valid, and I was too irrational and wrong to see otherwise.

 

“You first confronted me with worries that my anger and excessive nature could be affecting my children, and with my outburst I have given you no reason to think otherwise. As always my aim is to rectify this. You were also right in pointing out that I have had little to no practise in the art of apologising so I hope this is sufficient, but I would also like to make amends in any way that I can. I am not sure what would best express my regret and I did not want to take any presumptive action for it to only end up as an empty gesture. I have taken the liberty of dismantling your equipment from the library as I'm sure you will be tired after a long evening with the children, but please let me know if there is anything I can do to help beyond ensuring it won't happen again. I will be working on apologising where necessary, acknowledging my ignorance and bias, to both yourself and others around me, and trying to prevent such behaviour in the first place.”  

 

You hissed out a heavy breath through your teeth and your shoulders dropped in relief. A strange bubble of laughter caught in your throat as the apology rang in your ears. It was so unexpected: worst case scenario, you were expecting another heated argument, and the best case was a grunted ‘I’m sorry if I upset you but you made me angry’’ that fully placed the blame on your shoulders.  

 

“Well shit, that was astonishingly thorough.” You gave him a crooked smile. Gaster perked up a little but you could tell he was still wringing his hands behind his back.  

 

“The internet is a wellspring of information and it would have been foolish of me not to partake. Given my ignorance on the subject it was best to consult a variety of sources.” Gaster nodded, his posture tense and eerily formal.  

 

“Well, thank you for that.” You said, a little unsure how to articulate your feelings. “I accept your apology, but I want you to know that I've lost some of the respect I held for you. You're, I dunno, a super genius, so everyone already holds you in such high regard. You don't need to act like a total ass to maintain that, though I'm sure your professional and personal relationships will improve if you manage your stress. As for making amends? When I see you're actually working on those things, then we'll be moving in the right direction.”  

 

You felt so much lighter without the weight of everything bearing down upon your shoulders.  

 

“I would like to tell you about that telephone call. It was obviously centred around you, though unfortunately that was not of my own doing. My assistant is… well, that doesn't matter. You are still involved and though it broaches a difficult and uncomfortable topic, I will do my best to explain.” He avoided your gaze, face twisted in a mixture of embarrassment, shame and burning cheeks.

 

Judging by the side of the call that you had heard, it wasn't going to be a conversation suitable for the children to hear.

 

“Sure, tomorrow, but first let's get inside and feed the hungriest children that I have ever encountered. Also, I'm pretty sure my fingers will freeze and shatter like icicles if I stay out here any longer.” You laughed. It felt so good to laugh after the constant anxiety and anger that had been churning in your gut throughout the day.  

 

“Have I ever told you about the incident at the laboratory with the shattered liquid nitrogen container?” Gaster asked, all too nonchalant in his sincerity.  

 

Morbid curiosity and vivid imagery made a shudder run down your spine. He chuckled at your reaction when you mumbled out a weak, “No thank you.”  

 

“No matter. If you succumb to hypothermia and gangrenous digits, I have medically trained personnel on stand by and access to the finest hospital in the city.”  

 

You weren't quite sure if you should be pleased with his concern or confused as to whether he was taking you seriously. Perhaps that was his way of joking?

 

“Tea and food first, then we can assess the damage.” You laughed easily, and when you were both finally inside Gaster securely locked the front door.

 

~  

 

“So you'll have the results in a week? Do you get them in the mail, or do you have to go into the school to receive them?” You asked with your elbows planted heavily on the dining table.

 

Your shivering had only subsided once your hands were clasped tightly around a steaming mug of herbal tea, and Gaster kept a pot of it close by to ensure a continual supply of heat.  

You were going to change out of your shorts when you were settled in for the evening, but as soon as you sat down on the comfortable wooden dining chair, you were feeling far too lazy to do anything but chat and drink tea. You simply enjoyed the blessed warmth of the house without even needing to put on a cardigan.  

 

Papyrus looked up at you and smiled sleepily. You took in his drooping eyelids and sagging shoulders, certain that he would be passed out on the sofa before too long. The boys had chosen to slip straight into their comfortable pyjamas and you were doubly confident they would both be in for an early night as Sans nearly nodded off in between sips of tea.  

 

“Via the postal service, most likely. I will call the school in the morning to double check.” Gaster rumbled.  

 

“Whatever the results may be, I’m already proud because I'm sure you guys worked to the best of your abilities.” You ran your hand down the back of Papyrus’ skull. He leaned into your hand with a satisfied hum and closed his eyes.  

 

“It's been a difficult week but you can finally relax! Why don’t I order pizza as a treat for all your hard work? We can watch a couple of movies and then you can catch up on some sleep.”

 

“Sleep is for the weak.” Papyrus yawned.  

 

Gaster looked away in disdain and pinched the bridge of his nose to keep himself together.

 

Sans snorted and slipped down from his chair to dig out the menu for a local pizza place, stating that the hot dog stuffed crust was particularly tasty.

  

~

  

After a meal of greasy pizza and a small mountain of garlic knots, Gaster had excused himself to his office, stating that he had to fill out just a little more paperwork before he could retire for the night.  

 

The lights were dimmed, the room smelt like leftover food and the heating had been cranked up to a near uncomfortable degree, but you were cozy. Sans lounged on an oversized armchair with cushions and pillows stuffed so thoroughly that they practically engulfed his small body, and Papyrus was snuggled soundly between the arm of the sofa and your side. Occasionally he would shuffle away to wrap a blanket tighter around his shoulders, and then wriggle back to your side in a tight cocoon of faded green yarn.  

 

You were completely content, so full of hot food and soothing relief that you struggled to stay awake. You tried to follow the story of the animated movie, and though Sans had explained how it tied into Papy's favourite TV series, you were still lost. The plot was a little absurd and full of characters that you did not recognise, but the boys had both long fallen silent on explaining what was going on. Even if you didn't understand what was happening or why, the cartoon horses were cute and the songs were annoyingly catchy.  

 

Crystal clear through the fancy speaker system, the loud and rhythmic chorus of a musical number covered the noise of Gaster's approach. You startled awake, suddenly alert when a silhouette appeared in your peripheral vision. Papyrus didn't pay too close attention to your jerky movement and simply fidgeted away to drape himself over the arm of the sofa. You looked over to the kids, both in various stages of snoozing. Papyrus already had his head tilted against the cushions, letting out the occasional snuffling snore, and Sans was too caught up in the movie, eyes half lidded and too relaxed to notice his father's arrival.   

 

Gaster had changed into casual clothes, seemingly intent on enjoying family fun time, but he didn't make any move to join you. He awkwardly hovered by the edge of your sight, avoiding the questioning look you gave. You shifted into the middle of the sofa and wordlessly patted the space next to you. Even with the invitation extended it took him several long moments to take a seat and an even longer time to relax into the cushions. His posture was rigid and unsure for a while, but little by little his muscles loosened. You forced yourself to stare ahead, but for some reason you were barely able to pay attention to the action on screen.

 

By the time the film was over the doctor had moved closer. Your arms were touching and your sides were forced to press together when Papyrus decided to spread his legs out atop your thighs. At first you couldn't tell why your heart was hammering in your chest whenever your bare skin rubbed against Gaster’s. It wasn't quite discomfort, for you would have pulled away immediately if the touch was unwanted, and you thought harder and harder to pin down the feeling. You certain that he would be able to feel or even hear the harsh beating of your heart. The pounding worsened when the doctor draped his arm along the back of the chair, and finally a word for that feeling clicked into place. The movement pressed you closer against his side, and though he didn't shift to hold your shoulders or even touch your skin, you found yourself craving it.

 

“I'm sorry.” He whispered, his low voice barely audible over the din.

 

You nodded quickly, feeling awkward and flushed.

 

It was the closest you’d physically come into contact with Gaster. It was so casual, and knowing his typical habits of personal space, the act felt a little intimate. Sure, you had practically pressed yourself right up against his chest when you were scolding him in the library, but that didn't really count. Now that you were both relaxed and companionable, you were beginning to enjoy the heat of his body against your own.  

 

Sans extracted himself from the armchair to slip another disk into the DVD player and the dark room was filled with flickering lights once more. You hadn't even realised that the last film had finished, and a few minutes later you glanced over to find the boys snoring away without a care in the world.

 

Your thoughts turned back to the doctor's conversation with Cirrus: the adamant and protective words, and the borderline possessive bite to Gaster’s voice. The feeling seared itself to the inside of your ribs and you thought that maybe, just maybe, you'd allow yourself to daydream in the quiet respite of your mind for just a little longer.

 

Despite the fantasy playing out in your head, you were unsure as to why you and Gaster continued watching a movie that you had no context for, let alone any desire to sit through now that the boys were asleep. Yet you both sat there in silence, staring straight ahead, keenly aware of your sides pressed together and the few respectable inches between your bare shoulder and Gaster’s hand.   

 

The needy part of you that craved his touch wished that his fingertips would graze against the back of your neck. You blood was pumping a violent rhythm in your ears when you gently placed your hand on the top of Gaster’s thigh, a small way to show you were rebuilding the trust and a small way to accept his apology. He stiffened once more. When the tension snapped through his body like a bolt of electricity, you thought of quietly explaining, but ultimately you knew it was a foolish idea. Your head spun and you immediately felt stupid and apprehensive, unsure as to why you had even done that in the first place, fearful of rejection but hopeful all the same. You moved to pull your arm away and apologise, to explain away the silly gesture, but Gaster slowly twisted and the words caught in your throat. He hesitantly placed his other hand atop your own to softly keep it in place.

 

It took a while for you both to relax again, unsure of what was happening and unsure of what to do. The arm behind you dared to move closer, forearm pressed along your neck in the barest of touches. The warmth of his skin was wonderfully soothing, but it also seeped through your bones and coalesced into a fiery mass in your chest. A relief and a burn all at once.

 

The movie, the phone call, the stress. It all mattered very little when Gaster’s thumb ran a gentle circle over your knuckles. You were grateful for the darkness, that way no one could witness the tiny, precious motion and the delicious burn that flushed across your face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> >:3
> 
> Come over to my Tumblr, Athenanuu, and scream about sweet, sweet hand-holding.
> 
>  
> 
> As always, a million thank yous for the support. It means the world to me, it really does.  
> My eternal gratitude to my editor LittleQuail for corralling my commas into place and translating all the weird British colloquiallisms that I can't stop writing.
> 
> Now that I know hot dog stuffed crust pizza exists, I cannot go back to who I was before.  
> I am a changed woman, no longer ignorant and blind, and I have a mighty need.  
> Send help; I hunger for wisdom.  
> Send pizza.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Adventures of a Skele-Nanny](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15741384) by [Lavender_chan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lavender_chan/pseuds/Lavender_chan)




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